,-- 


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DAVID  DUNNE 


L^zKj       Jt^LAscL^J 


" He  stood  as  if  at  bay,  fits  face  pale,  his  eyes  riveted 

on  those  floating  banners"  Page  218 


DAVID    DUNNE 

A  ROMANCE  OF  THE  MIDDLE  WEST 


By 

BELLE  KANARIS  MANIATES 


With  illustrations  by 
JOHN  DREW 


RAND  McNALLY  &  COMPANY 
CHICAGO  NEW  YORK 


p 


S3 
3>3 


Copyright,  1012,  by 
RAND,  McNALLY  &  COMPANY 


To  Milly  and  Gardner 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

"He  stood  as  if    at  bay,  his   face  pale,  his  eyes 

riveted  on  those  floating  banners"     .     Frontispiece 

FACING 
PAGE 

"'Dave's  little  gal!'" u 

"  With  proudly  protective  air,  David  walked  beside 

the  stiffly  starched  little  girl" 42 

"  David's  friends  were  surprised  to  receive  an  off- 
hand invitation  from  him  to  'drop  in  for  a  little 
country  spread' " 148 

"  He  kept  his  word.     Jud  was  cleared"     .     .     .     .     158 

"  It  was  a  relief  to  find  Carey  alone" 224 

"  'Carey,  will  you  make  the  dream  a  reality?'  "   .     .     238 


'Dave's  little  gall' " 


PART  ONE 

CHAPTER  I 

ACROSS  lots  to  the  Brumble  farm  came  the 
dusty  apparition  of  a  boy,  a  tousle-headed, 
freckle-faced,  gaunt-eyed  little  fellow,  clad  in  a 
sort  of  combination  suit  fashioned  from  a  pair 
of  overalls  and  a  woman's  shirtwaist.  In  search 
of  "Miss  M'ri,"  he  looked  into  the  kitchen,  the 
henhouse,  the  dairy,  and  the  flower  garden.  Not 
finding  her  in  any  of  these  accustomed  places,  he 
stood  still  in  perplexity. 

"Miss  M'ri!"  rang  out  his  youthful,  vibrant 
treble. 

There  was  a  note  of  promise  in  the  pleasant 
voice  that  came  back  in  subterranean  response. 

"Here,  David,  in  the  cellar." 

The  lad  set  down  the  tin  pail  he  was  carrying 
and  eagerly  sped  to  the  cellar.  His  fondest 
hopes  were  realized.  M'ri  Brumble,  thirty  odd 
years  of  age,  blue  of  eye,  slightly  gray  of  hair, 

11 


DAVID   DUNNE 

and  sweet  of  heart,  was  lifting  the  cover  from 
the  ice-cream  freezer. 

"Well,  David  Dunne,  you  came  in  the  nick  of 
time,"  she  said,  looking  up  with  kindly  eyes. 
"It 's  just  frozen.  I  '11  dish  you  up  some  now,  if 
you  will  run  up  to  the  pantry  and  fetch  two 
saucers — biggest  you  can  find." 

Fleetly  David  footed  the  stairs  and  returned 
with  two  soup  plates. 

"These  were  the  handiest,"  he  explained  apol- 
ogetically as  he  handed  them  to  her. 

"Just  the  thing,"  promptly  reassured  M'ri, 
transferring  a  heaping  ladle  of  yellow  cream  to 
one  of  the  plates.    "Easy  to  eat  out  of,  too." 

"My,  but  you  are  giving  me  a  whole  lot,"  he 
said,  watching  her  approvingly  and  encourag- 
ingly.   "I  hope  you  ain't  robbing  yourself." 

"Oh,  no;  I  always  make  plenty,"  she  replied, 
dishing  a  smaller  portion  for  herself.  "Here  's 
enough  for  our  dinner  and  some  for  you  to  carry 
home  to  your  mother." 

"I  haven't  had  any  since  last  Fourth  of 
July,"  he  observed  in  plaintive  reminiscence  as 
they  went  upstairs. 

12 


DAVID   DUNNE 

"Why,  David  Dunne,  how  you  talk!  You 
just  come  over  here  whenever  you  feel  like  eat- 
ing ice  cream,  and  I  '11  make  you  some.  It 's  no 
trouble." 

They  sat  down  on  the  west,  vine-clad  porch  to 
enjoy  their  feast  in  leisure  and  shade.  M'ri  had 
never  lost  her  childish  appreciation  of  the  deli- 
cacy, and  to  David  the  partaking  thereof  was 
little  short  of  ecstasy.  He  lingered  longingly 
over  the  repast,  and  when  the  soup  plate  would 
admit  of  no  more  scraping  he  came  back  with  a 
sigh  to  sordid  cares. 

"Mother  couldn't  get  the  washing  done  no- 
ways to-day.  She  ain't  feeling  well,  but  you  can 
have  the  clothes  to-morrow,  sure.  She  sent  you 
some  sorghum,"  pointing  to  the  pail. 

M'ri  took  the  donation  into  the  kitchen.  When 
she  brought  back  the  pail  it  was  filled  with  eggs. 
Not  to  send  something  in  return  would  have 
been  an  unpardonable  breach  of  country  eti- 
quette. 

"Your  mother  said  your  hens  were  n't  laying," 
she  said. 

The  boy's  eyes  brightened. 

13 


DAVID   DUNNE 

"Thank  you,  Miss  M'ri;  these  will  come  in 
good.  Our  hens  won't  lay  nor  set.  Mother  says 
they  have  formed  a  union.  But  I  'most  forgot 
to  tell  you — when  I  came  past  Winterses,  Ziny 
told  me  to  ask  you  to  come  over  as  soon  as  you 
could." 

"I  suppose  Zine  has  got  one  of  her  low  spells," 
said  Barnabas  Brumble,  who  had  just  come  up 
from  the  barn.  f'Most  likely  Bill 's  bin  gittin' 
tight  agin.    He — " 

"Oh,  no !"  interrupted  his  sister  hastily.  "Bill 
has  quit  drinking." 

"Bill 's  allers  a-quittin'.  Trouble  with  Bill  is, 
he  can't  stay  quit.  I  see  him  yesterday  comin' 
down  the  road  zig-zaggin'  like  a  rail  fence.  Fust 
she  knows,  she  '11  hev  to  be  takin'  washin'  to  sup- 
port him.  Sometimes  I  think  't  would  be  a  good 
idee  to  let  him  git  sent  over  the  road  onct.  Meb- 
by  't  would  learn  him  a  lesson — " 

He  stopped  short,  noticing  the  significant  look 
in  M'ri's  eyes  and  the  two  patches  of  color 
spreading  over  David's  thin  cheeks.  He  re- 
called that  four  years  ago  the  boy's  father  had 
(died  in  state  prison. 

14 


DAVID   DUNNE 

"You  'd  better  go  right  over  to  Zine's,"  he 
added  abruptly. 

"I  '11  wait  till  after  dinner.  We  '11  have  it 
early." 

"Hev  it  now,"  suggested  Barnabas. 

"Now!"  ejaculated  David.  "It's  only  half- 
past  ten." 

"I  could  eat  it  now  jest  as  well  as  I  could  at 
twelve,"  argued  the  philosophical  Barnabas. 
"Jest  as  leaves  as  not." 

There  were  no  ironclad  rules  in  this  comfort- 
able household,  especially  when  Pennyroyal,  the 
help,  was  away. 

"All  right,"  assented  M'ri  with  alacrity.  "If 
I  am  going  to  do  anything,  I  like  to  do  it  right 
off  quick  and  get  it  over  with.  You  stay, 
David,  if  you  can  eat  dinner  so  early." 

"Yes,  I  can,"  he  assured  her,  recalling  his 
scanty  breakfast  and  the  freezer  of  cream  that 
was  to  furnish  the  dessert.  "I  '11  help  you  get 
it,  Miss  M'ri." 

He  brought  a  pail  of  water  from  the  well, 
filled  the  teakettle,  and  then  pared  the  potatoes 
for  her. 

15 


DAVID   DUNNE 

"When  will  Jud  and  Janey  get  their  dinner?" 
he  asked  Barnabas. 

"They  kerried  their  dinner  to-day.  The  schol- 
ars air  goin'  to  hev  a  picnic  down  to  Spicely's 
grove.  How  comes  it  you  ain't  to  school, 
Dave?" 

"I  have  to  help  my  mother  with  the  wash- 
ing," he  replied,  a  slow  flush  coming  to  his  face 
"She  ain't  strong  enough  to  do  it  alone." 

"What  on  airth  kin  you  do  about  a  washin', 
Dave?" 

"I  can  draw  the  water,  turn  the  wringer,  hang 

up  the  clothes,  empty  the  tubs,  fetch  and  carry 

the  washings,  and  mop." 
» r.  * 
Barnabas  puffed  fiercely  at  his  pipe  for  a 

moment. 

"You  're  a  good  boy,  Dave,  a  mighty  good 

boy.     I  don't  know  what  your  ma  would  do 

without  you.     I  hed  to  leave  school  when   I 

wa'n't  as  old  as  you,  and  git  out  and  hustle  so 

the  younger  children  could  git  eddicated.    By 

the  time  I  wuz  foot-loose  from  farm  work,  I  wuz 

too  old  to  git  any  larnin'.    You  'd  orter  manage 

someway,  though,  to  git  eddicated." 

16 


DAVID   DUNNE 

"Mother's  taught  me  to  read  and  write  and 
spell.  When  I  get  old  enough  to  work  for  good 
wages  I  can  go  into  town  to  the  night  school." 

In  a  short  time  M'ri  had  cooked  a  dinner  that 
would  have  tempted  less  hearty  appetites  than 
those  possessed  by  her  brother  and  David. 

"You  ain't  what  might  be  called  a  delikit 
feeder,  Dave,"  remarked  Barnabas,  as  he  replen- 
ished the  boy's  plate  for  the  third  time.  "You  're 
so  lean  I  don't  see  where  you  put  it  all. 

David  might  have  responded  that  the  vacuum 
was  due  to  the  fact  that  his  breakfast  had  con- 
sisted of  a  piece  of  bread  and  his  last  night's 
supper  of  a  dish  of  soup,  but  the  Dunne  pride 
inclined  to  reservation  on  family  and  personal 
matters.  He  speared  another  small  potato  and 
paused,  with  fork  suspended  between  mouth  and 
plate. 

"Mother  says  she  thinks  I  am  hollow  inside 
like  a  stovepipe." 

"Well,  I  dunno.  Stovepipes  git  filled  some- 
times," ruminated  his  host. 

"Leave  room  for  the  ice  cream,  David,"  cau- 
tioned M'ri,  as  she  descended  to  the  cellar. 

17 

(2) 


DAVID   DUNNE 

The  lad's  eyes  brightened  as  he  beheld  the 
golden  pyramid.  Another  period  of  lingering 
bliss,  and  then  with  a  sigh  of  mingled  content 
and  regret,  David  rose  from  the  table. 

"Want  me  to  hook  up  for  you,  Mr.  Brumble?" 
he  asked,  moved  to  show  his  gratitude  for  the 
hospitality  extended. 

"Why,  yes,  Dave;  wish  you  would.  My  back 
is  sorter  lame  to-day.  Land  o'  livin',"  he  com- 
mented after  David  had  gone  to  the  barn,  "but 
that  boy  swallered  them  potaters  like  they  wuz 
so  many  pills!" 

"Poor  Mrs.  Dunne!"  sighed  M'ri.  "I  am 
afraid  it  's  all  she  can  do  to  keep  a  very  small 
pot  boiling.  I  am  glad  she  sent  the  sorghum,  so 
I  could  have  an  excuse  for  sending  the  eggs." 

"She  hain't  poor  so  long  as  she  hez  a  young 
sprout  like  Dave  a-growin'  up.  We  used  to  call 
Peter  Dunne  'Old  Hickory,'  but  Dave,  he 's 
second-growth  hickory.  He  's  the  kind  to  bend 
and  not  break.  Jest  you  wait  till  he  's  seasoned 
onct." 

After  she  had  packed  a  pail  of  ice  cream  for 
David,  gathered  some  flowers  for  Ziny,  and  made 

18 


DAVID   DUNNE 

out  a  memorandum  of  supplies  for  Barnabas  to 
get  in  town,  M'ri  set  out  on  her  errand  of  mercy. 

The  "hooking  up"  accomplished,  David,  laden 
with  a  tin  pail  in  each  hand  and  carrying  in  his 
pocket  a  drawing  of  black  tea  for  his  mother  to 
sample,  made  his  way  through  sheep-dotted 
pastures  to  Beechum's  woods,  and  thence  along 
the  bank  of  the  River  Rood.  Presently  he  spied 
a  young  man  standing  knee-deep  in  the  stream 
in  the  patient  pose  peculiar  to  fishermen. 

"Catch  anything?"  called  David  eagerly. 

The  man  turned  and  came  to  shore.  He  wore 
rubber  hip  boots,  dark  trousers,  a  blue  flannel 
shirt,  and  a  wide-brimmed  hat.  His  eyes,  blue 
and  straight-gazing,  rested  reminiscently  upon 
the  lad. 

"No,"  he  replied  calmly.  "I  did  n't  intend  to 
catch  anything.    What  is  your  name  ?" 

"David  Dunne." 

The  man  meditated. 

"You  must  be  about  twelve  years  old." 

"How  did  you  know?" 

"I  am  a  good  guesser.  What  have  you  got  in 
your  pail?" 

19 


DAVID   DUNNE 

"Which  one?" 

"Both." 

"Thought  you  were  a  good  guesser." 

The  youth  laughed. 

"You  '11  do,  David.  Let  me  think — where  did 
you  come  from  just  know?" 

"From  Brumble's." 

"It 's  ice  cream  you  've  got  in  your  pail,"  he 
said  assuredly. 

"That's  just  what  it  is!"  cried  the  boy  in 
astonishment,  "and  there 's  eggs  in  the  other 
pail." 

"Let 's  have  a  look  at  the  ice  cream." 

David  lifted  the  cover. 

"It  looks  like  butter,"  declared  the  stranger. 

"It  don't  taste  like  butter,"  was  the  indignant 
rejoinder.  "Miss  M'ri  makes  the  best  cream  of 
any  one  in  the  country." 

"I  knew  that,  my  young  friend,  before  you 
did.  It 's  a  long  time  since  I  had  any,  though. 
Will  you  sell  it  to  me,  David?  I  will  give  you 
half  a  dollar  for  it." 

Hall  a  dollar!  His  mother  had  to  work  all 
day  to  earn  that  amount.    The  ice  cream  was  not 

20 


DAVID   DUNNE 

his — not  entirely.    Miss  M'ri  had  sent  it  to  his 
mother.    Still — 

"  'T  will  melt  anyway  before  I  get  home,"  he 
argued  aloud  and  persuasively. 

"Of  course  it  will,"  asserted  the  would-be  pur- 
chaser. 

David  surrendered  the  pail,  and  after  much 
protestation  consented  to  receive  the  piece  of 
money  which  the  young  man  pressed  upon  him. 

"You  '11  have  to  help  me  eat  it  now ;  there  's  no 
pleasure  in  eating  ice  cream  alone." 

"We  have  n't  any  spoons,"  commented  the  boy 
dubiously. 

"We  will  go  to  my  house  and  eat  it." 

"Where  do  you  live?"  asked  David  in  surprise. 

"Just  around  the  bend  of  the  river  here." 

David's  freckles  darkened.  He  did  n't  like  to 
be  made  game  of  by  older  people,  for  then  there 
was  no  redress. 

"There  is  n't  any  house  within  two  miles  of 
here,"  he  said  shortly. 

"What  '11  you  bet?    Half  a  dollar?" 

"No,"  replied  David  resolutely. 

"Well,  come  and  see." 
21 


DAVID   DUNNE 

David  followed  his  new  acquaintance  around 
the  wooded  bank.  The  river  was  full  of  sur- 
prises to-day.  In  midstream  he  saw  what  looked 
to  him  like  a  big  raft  supporting  a  small  house. 

"That 's  my  shanty  boat,"  explained  the  young 
man,  as  he  shoved  a  rowboat  from  shore.  "Jump 
in,  my  boy." 

"Do  you  live  in  it  all  the  time?"  asked  David, 
watching  with  admiration  the  easy  but  forceful 
pull  on  the  oars. 

"No;  I  am  on  a  little  fishing  and  hunting  ex- 
pedition." 

"Can't  kill  anything  now,"  said  the  boy,  a 
derisive  smile  flickering  over  his  features. 

"I  am  not  hunting  to  kill,  my  lad.  I  am  hunt- 
ing old  scenes  and  memories  of  other  days.  I 
used  to  live  about  here.  I  ran  away  eight  years 
ago  when  I  was  just  your  age." 

"What  is  your  name?"  asked  David  inter- 
estedly. 

"Joe  Forbes." 

"Oh,"  was  the  eager  rejoinder.  "I  know. 
You  are  Deacon  Forbes'  wild  son  that  ran 
away." 

22 


DAVID   DUNNE 

"So  that 's  how  I  am  known  around  here,  is 
it?  Well,  I  've  come  back,  to  settle  up  my 
father's  estate." 

"What  did  you  run  away  for?"  inquired 
David. 

"Combination  of  too  much  stepmother  and  a 
roving  spirit,  I  guess.    Here  we  are." 

He  sprang  on  the  platform  of  the  shanty  boat 
and  helped  David  on  board.  The  boy  inspected 
this  novel  house  in  wonder  while  his  host  set 
saucers  and  spoons  on  the  table. 

"Would  you  mind,"  asked  David  in  an  em- 
barrassed manner  as  he  wistfully  eyed  the  cov- 
eted luxury,  "if  I  took  my  dishful  home?" 

"What 's  the  matter?"  asked  Forbes,  his  eyes 
twinkling.    "Eaten  too  much  already?" 

"No;  but  you  see  my  mother  likes  it  and  she 
has  n't  had  any  since  last  summer.  I  'd  rather 
take  mine  to  her." 

"There  's  plenty  left  for  your  mother.  I  '11 
put  this  pail  in  a  bigger  one  and  pack  ice  about 
it.    Then  it  won't  melt." 

"But  you  paid  me  for  it,"  protested  David. 

"That 's  all  right.     Your  mother  was  pretty 

28 


DAVID   DUNNE 

good  to  me  when  I  was  a  boy.  She  dried  my 
mop  of  hair  for  me  once  so  my  stepmother  would 
not  know  I  'd  been  in  swimming.  Tell  her  I  sent 
the  cream  to  her.  Say,  you  were  right  about 
Miss  M'ri  making  the  best  cream  in  the  country. 
It  used  to  be  a  chronic  pastime  with  her.  That 's 
how  I  guessed  what  you  had  when  you  said  you 
came  from  there.  Whenever  there  was  a  picnic 
or  a  surprise  party  in  the  country  she  alwaj^s 
furnished  the  ice  cream.  Is  n't  she  married  yet?" 

"No." 

"Does  n't  she  keep  company  with  some  lucky 
man?" 

"No,"  again  denied  the  boy  emphatically. 

"What 's  the  matter?  She  used  to  be  awfully 
pretty  and  sweet." 

"She  is  now,  but  she  don't  want  any  man." 

"Well,  now,  David,  that  is  n't  quite  natural, 
you  know.  Why  do  you  think  she  does  n't  want 
one?" 

"I  heard  say  she  was  crossed  once." 

"Crossed,  David?  And  what  might  that  be?" 
asked  Forbes  in  a  delighted  feint  of  perplexity. 

"Disappointed  in  love,  you  know." 

24 


DAVID   DUNNE 

"Yes;  it  all  comes  back  now — the  gossip  of 
my  boyhood  days.  She  was  going  with  a  man 
when  Barnabas'  wife  died  and  left  two  children 
— one  a  baby — and  Miss  M'ri  gave  up  her  lover 
to  do  her  duty  by  her  brother's  family.  So 
Barnabas  never  married  again?" 

"No;  Miss  M'ri  keeps  house  and  brings  up 
Jud  and  Janey." 

"I  remember  Jud — mean  little  shaver.  Janey 
must  be  the  baby." 

"She  's  eight  now." 

"I  remember  you,  David.  You  were  a  little 
toddler  of  four — all  eyes.  Your  folks  had  a 
place  right  on  the  edge  of  town." 

"We  left  it  when  I  was  six  years  old  and  came 
out  here,"  informed  David. 

Forbes'  groping  memory  recalled  the  gossip 
that  had  reached  him  in  the  Far  West.  "Dunne 
went  to  prison,"  he  mused,  "and  the  farm  was 
mortgaged  to  defray  the  expenses  of  the  trial." 
He  hastened  back  to  a  safer  channel. 

"Miss  M'ri  was  foolish  to  spoil  her  life  and 
the  man's  for  fancied  duty,"  he  observed. 

David  bridled. 

25 


DAVID   DUNNE 

"Barnabas  could  n't  go  to  school  when  he  was 
a  boy  because  he  had  to  work  so  she  and  the  other 
children  could  go.  She  'd  ought  to  have  stood 
by  him." 

"I  see  you  have  a  sense  of  duty,  too.  This 
county  was  always  strong  on  duty.  I  suppose 
they  've  got  it  in  for  me  because  I  ran  away?" 

"Mr.  Brumble  says  it  was  a  wise  thing  for  you 
to  do.  Uncle  Larimy  says  you  were  a  brick  of 
a  boy.  Miss  Rhody  says  she  had  no  worry  about 
her  woodpile  getting  low  when  you  were  here." 

"Poor  Miss  Rhody!  Does  she  still  live  alone? 
And  Uncle  Larimy — is  he  uncle  to  the  whole 
community?  What  fishing  days  I  had  with 
him!  I  must  look  him  up  and  tell  him  all  my 
adventures.  I  have  planned  a  round  of  calls 
for  to-night — Miss  M'ri,  Miss  Rhody,  Uncle 
Larimy — " 

"Tell  me  about  your  adventures,"  demanded 
David  breathlessly. 

He  listened  to  a  wondrous  tale  of  western  life, 
and  never  did  narrator  get  into  so  close  relation 
with  his  auditor  as  did  this  young  ranchman  with 
David  Dunne. 

26 


DAVID   DUNNE 

"I  must  go  home,"  said  the  boy  reluctantly 
when  Joe  had  concluded. 

"Come  down  to-morrow,  David,  and  we  '11  go 
fishing." 

"All  right.    Thank  you,  sir." 

With  heart  as  light  as  air,  David  sped  through 
the  woods.    He  had  found  his  Hero. 


27 


CHAPTER  II 

DAVID  struck  out  from  the  shelter  of  the 
woodland  and  made  his  way  to  his  home, 
a  pathetically  small,  rudely  constructed  house. 
The  patch  of  land  supposed  to  be  a  garden,  and 
in  proportion  to  the  dimensions  of  the  building, 
showed  a  few  feeble  efforts  at  vegetation.  It 
was  not  positively  known  that  the  Widow  Dunne 
had  a  clear  title  to  her  homestead,  but  one  would 
as  soon  think  of  foreclosing  a  mortgage  on  a 
playhouse,  or  taking  a  nest  from  a  bird,  as  to 
press  any  claim  on  this  fallow  fragment  in  the 
midst  of  prosperous  farmlands. 

Some  discouraged  looking  fowls  picked  at  the 
scant  grass,  a  lean  cow  switched  a  lackadaisical 
tail,  and  in  a  pen  a  pig  grunted  his  discontent. 

David  went  into  the  little  kitchen,  where  a 
woman  was  bending  wearily  over  a  washtub. 

"Mother,"  cried  the  boy  in  dismay,  "you  said 
you  'd  let  the  washing  go  till  to-morrow.  That 's 
why  I  did  n't  come  right  back." 

28 


DAVID   DUNNE 

She  paused  in  the  rubbing  of  a  soaped  gar- 
ment and  wrung  the  suds  from  her  tired  and 
swollen  hands. 

"I  felt  better,  David,  and  I  thought  I  'd  get 
them  ready  for  you  to  hang  out." 

David  took  the  garment  from  her. 

"Sit  down  and  eat  this  ice  cream  Miss  M'ri 
sent — no,  I  mean  Joe  Forbes  sent  you.  There 
was  more,  but  I  sold  it  for  half  a  dollar;  and 
here  's  a  pail  of  eggs  and  a  drawing  of  tea  she 
wants  you  to  sample.  She  says  she  is  no  judge 
of  black  tea." 

"Joe  Forbes!"  exclaimed  his  mother  inter- 
estedly. "I  thought  maybe  he  would  be  coming 
back  to  look  after  the  estate.  Is  he  going  to 
stay?" 

"I  '11  tell  you  all  about  him,  mother,  if  you 
will  sit  down." 

He  began  a  vigorous  turning  of  the  wringer. 

The  patient,  tired-looking  eyes  of  the  woman 
brightened  as  she  dished  out  a  saucer  of  the 
cream.  The  weariness  in  the  sensitive  lines  of  her 
face  and  the  prominence  of  her  knuckles  bore 
evidence  of  a  life  of  sordid  struggle,  but,  above 


DAVID   DUNNE 

all,  the  mother  love  illumined  her  features  with  a 
flash  of  radiance. 

"You  're  a  good  provider,  David ;  but  tell  me 
where  you  have  been  for  so  long,  and  where  did 
you  see  Joe?" 

He  gave  her  a  faithful  account  of  his  dinner 
at  the  Brumble  farm  and  his  subsequent  meet- 
ing with  Joe,  working  the  wringer  steadily  as  he 
talked. 

"There!"  he  exclaimed  with  a  sigh  of  satisfac- 
tion, "they  are  ready  for  the  line,  but  before  I 
hang  them  out  I  am  going  to  cook  your  dinner." 

"I  am  rested  now,  David.    I  will  cook  me  an 

egg" 

"No,  I  will,"  insisted  the  boy,  going  to  the 
stove. 

A  few  moments  later,  with  infinite  satisfac- 
tion, he  watched  her  partake  of  crisp  toast,  fresh 
eggs,  and  savory  tea. 

"Did  you  see  Jud  and  Janey?"  she  asked  sud- 
denly. 

"No;  they  were  at  school." 

"David,  you  shall  go  regularly  to  school  next 
fall." 

30 


DAVID   DUNNE 

"No,"  said  David  stoutly;  "next  fall  I  am  go- 
ing to  work  regularly  for  some  of  the  farmers, 
and  you  are  not  going  to  wash  any  more." 

Her  eyes  grew  moist. 

"David,  will  you  always  be  good — will  you 
grow  up  to  be  as  good  a  man  as  I  want  you  to 
be?" 

"How  good  do  you  want  me  to  be?"  he  asked 
dubiously. 

A  radiant  and  tender  smile  played  about  her 
mouth. 

"Not  goodygood,  David;  but  will  you  always 
be  honest,  and  brave,  and  kind,  as  you  are  now?" 

"I  '11  try,  mother." 

"And  never  forget  those  who  do  you  a  kind- 
ness, David;  always  show  your  gratitude." 

"Yes,  mother." 

"And,  David,  watch  your  temper  and,  what- 
ever happens,  I  shall  have  no  fears  for  your 
future." 

His  mother  seldom  talked  to  him  in  this  wise. 
He  thought  about  it  after  he  lay  in  his  little  cot 
in  the  sitting  room  that  night;  then  his  mind 
wandered  to  Joe  Forbes  and  his  wonderful  tales 

81 


DAVID   DUNNE 

of  the  West.  He  fell  asleep  to  dream  of  cow- 
boys and  prairies.  When  he  awoke  the  sun  was 
sending  golden  beams  through  the  eastward 
window. 

"Mother  is  n't  up,"  he  thought  in  surprise.  He 
stole  quietly  out  to  the  kitchen,  kindled  a  fire 
with  as  little  noise  as  possible,  put  the  kettle 
over,  set  the  table,  and  then  went  into  the  one 
tiny  bedroom  where  his  mother  lay  in  her  bed, 
still — very  still. 

"Mother,"  he  said  softly. 

There  was  no  response. 

"Mother,"  he  repeated.  Then  piercingly,  in 
excitement  and  fear,  "Mother!" 

At  last  he  knew. 

He  ran  wildly  to  the  outer  door.  Bill  Winters, 
fortunately  sober,  was  driving  slowly  by. 

"Bill!" 

"What 's  the  matter,  Dave?"  looking  into  the 
boy's  white  face.    "Your  ma  ain't  sick,  is  she?" 

David's  lips  quivered,  but  seemed  almost  un- 
able to  articulate. 

"She  's  dead,"  he  finally  whispered. 

"I  '11  send  Zine  right  over,"  exclaimed  Bill, 

32 


DAVID   DUNNE 

slapping  the  reins  briskly  across  the  drooping 
neck  of  his  horse. 

Very  soon  the  little  house  was  filled  to  over- 
flowing with  kind  and  sympathetic  neighbors 
who  had  come  to  do  all  that  had  to  be  done. 
David  sat  on  the  back  doorstep  until  M'ri  came; 
before  the  expression  in  his  eyes  she  felt  power- 
less to  comfort  him. 

"The  doctor  says  your  mother  died  in  her 
sleep,"  she  told  him.    "She  did  n't  suffer  any." 

He  made  no  reply.  Oppressed  by  the  dull 
pain  for  which  there  is  no  ease,  he  wandered  from 
the  house  to  the  garden,  and  from  the  garden 
back  to  the  house  throughout  the  day.  At  sun- 
set Barnabas  drove  over. 

"I  shall  stay  here  to-night,  Barnabas,"  said 
M'ri,  "but  I  want  you  to  drive  back  and  get  some 
things.  I  've  made  out  a  list.  Janey  will  know 
where  to  find  them." 

"Sha'n't  I  take  Dave  back  to  stay  to-night?" 
he  suggested. 

M'ri  hesitated,  and  looked  at  David. 

"No,"  he  said  dully,  following  Barnabas  list- 
lessly down  the  path  to  the  road. 

83 

(3) 


DAVID   DUNNE 

Barnabas,  keen,  shrewd,  and  sharp  at  a  bar- 
gain, had  a  heart  that  ever  softened  to  mother- 
less children. 

"Dave,"  he  said  gently,  "your  ma  won't  never 
hev  to  wash  no  more,  and  she  '11  never  be  sick  nor 
tired  agen." 

It  was  the  first  leaven  to  his  loss,  and  he  held 
tight  to  the  horny  hand  of  his  comforter.  After 
Barnabas  had  driven  away  there  came  trudging 
down  the  road  the  little,  lithe  figure  of  an  old 
man,  who  was  carrying  a  large  box.  His  mildly 
blue,  inquiring  eyes  looked  out  from  beneath 
their  hedge  of  shaggy  eyebrows.  His  hair  and 
his  beard  were  thick  and  bushy.  Joe  Forbes 
maintained  that  Uncle  Larimy  would  look 
no  different  if  his  head  were  turned  upside 
down. 

"David,"  he  said  softly,  "I  've  brung  yer  ma 
some  posies.  She  liked  my  yaller  roses,  you 
know.  I  'm  sorry  my  laylocks  are  gone.  They 
come  early  this  year." 

"Thank  you,  Uncle  Larimy." 

A  choking  sensation  warned  David  to  say  no 
more. 

84 


DAVID   DUNNE 

"Things  go  'skew  sometimes,  Dave,  but  the  sun 
will  shine  agen,"  reminded  the  old  man,  as  he 
went  on  into  the  house. 

Later,  when  sundown  shadows  had  vanished 
and  the  first  glimmer  of  the  stars  radiated  from 
a  pale  sky,  Joe  came  over.  David  felt  no  thrill 
at  sight  of  his  hero.  The  halo  was  gone.  He 
only  remembered  with  a  dull  ache  that  the  half 
dollar  had  brought  his  mother  none  of  the  lux- 
uries he  had  planned  to  buy  for  her. 

"David,"  said  the  young  ranchman,  his  deep 
voice  softened,  "my  mother  died  when  I  was 
younger  than  you  are,  but  you  won't  have  a  step- 
mother to  make  life  unbearable  for  you." 

The  boy  looked  at  him  with  inscrutable  eyes. 

"Don't  you  want  to  go  back  with  me  to  the 
ranch,  David?    You  can  learn  to  ride  and  shoot." 

David  shook  his  head  forlornly.  His  spirit  of 
adventure  was  smothered. 

"We  '11  talk  about  it  again,  David,"  he  said, 
as  he  went  in  to  consult  M'ri. 

"Don't  you  think  the  only  thing  for  the  boy 
to  do  is  to  go  back  with  me?  I  am  going  to  buy 
the  ranch  on  which  I  've  been  foreman,  and  I  '11 

85 


DAVID   DUNNE 

try  to  do  for  David  all  that  should  have  been 
done  for  me  when  I,  at  his  age,  felt  homeless  and 
alone.  He  's  the  kind  that  takes  things  hard  and 
qaiet;  life  in  the  open  will  pull  him  up." 

"No,  Joe,"  replied  M'ri  resolutely.  "He  's  not 
ready  for  that  kind  of  life  yet.  He  needs  to 
be  with  women  and  children  a  while  longer. 
Barnabas  and  I  are  going  to  take  him.  Barnabas 
suggested  it,  and  I  told  Mrs.  Dunne  one  day, 
when  her  burdens  were  getting  heavy,  that  we 
would  do  so  if  anything  like  this  should  happen." 

Joe  looked  at  her  with  revering  eyes. 

"Miss  M'ri,  you  are  so  good  to  other  people's 
children,  what  would  you  be  to  your  own!" 

The  passing  of  M'ri's  youth  had  left  a  faint 
flush  of  prettiness  like  the  afterglow  of  a  sunset 
faded  into  twilight.  She  was  of  the  kind  that 
old  age  would  never  wither.  In  the  deep  blue 
eyes  was  a  patient,  reflective  look  that  told  of  a 
past  but  unf orgotten  romance.  She  turned  from 
his  gaze,  but  not  before  he  had  seen  the  wistful- 
ness  his  speech  had  evoked.  After  he  had  gone, 
she  sought  David. 

"I  am  going  to  stay  here  with  you,  David,  for 
36 


DAVID   DUNNE 

two  or  three  days.  Then  Barnabas  and  I  want 
you  to  come  to  live  with  us.  I  had  a  long  talk 
with  your  mother  one  day,  and  I  told  her  if  any- 
thing happened  to  her  you  should  be  our  boy. 
That  made  her  less  anxious  about  the  future, 
David.    Will  you  come?" 

The  boy  looked  up  with  his  first  gleam  of  in- 
terest in  mundane  things. 

"I  'd  like  it,  but  would— Jud?" 

"I  am  afraid  Jud  doesn't  like  anything, 
David,"  she  replied  with  a  sigh.  "That 's  one 
reason  I  want  you — to  be  a  big  brother  to  Janey, 
for  I  think  that  is  what  she  needs,  and  what  Jud 
can  never  be." 

The  boy  remembered  what  his  mother  had 
counseled. 

"I  '11  always  take  care  of  Janey,"  he  earnestly 
assured  her. 

"I  know  you  will,  David." 

Two  dreary  days  passed  in  the  way  that  such 
days  do  pass,  and  then  David  rode  to  his  new 
home  with  Barnabas  and  M'ri. 

Jud  Brumble,  a  refractory,  ungovernable  lad 
of  fifteen,  did  n't  look  altogether  unfavorably 

37 


DAVID   DUNNE 

upon  the  addition  to  the  household,  knowing  that 
his  amount  of  work  would  thereby  be  lessened, 
and  that  he  would  have  a  new  victim  for  his  per- 
secutions and  tyrannies. 

Janey,  a  little  rosebud  of  a  girl  with  dimples 
and  flaxen  curls,  hung  back  shyly  and  looked  at 
David  with  awed  eyes.  She  had  been  frightened 
by  what  she  had  heard  about  his  mother,  and  in  a 
vague,  disconnected  way  she  associated  him  with 
Death.  M'ri  went  to  the  child's  bedside  that 
night  and  explained  the  situation.  "Poor  Davey 
is  all  alone,  now,  and  very  unhappy,  so  we  must 
be  kind  to  him.  I  told  him  you  were  to  be  his 
little  sister." 

Then  M'ri  took  David  to  a  gabled  room,  at 
each  end  of  which  was  a  swinging  window — "one 
for  seeing  the  sun  rise,  and  one  for  seeing  it  set," 
she  said,  as  she  turned  back  the  covers  from  the 
spotless  white  bed.  She  yearned  to  console  him, 
but  before  the  mute  look  of  grief  in  his  big  eyes 
she  was  silent. 

"I  wish  he  would  cry,"  she  said  wistfully  to 
Barnabas,  "he  has  n't  shed  a  tear  since  his  mother 
died." 

38 


DAVID   DUNNE 

No  sooner  had  the  sound  of  her  footsteps 
ceased  than  David  threw  off  his  armor  of  self- 
restraint  and  burst  into  a  passion  of  sobs,  the 
wilder  for  their  long  repression.  He  did  n't  hear 
the  patter  of  little  feet  on  the  floor,  and  not  until 
two  mothering  arms  were  about  his  neck  did  he 
see  the  white-robed  figure  of  Janey. 

"Don't  cry,  Davey,"  she  implored,  her  quiver- 
ing red  mouth  against  his  cheek.  "I'm  sorry; 
but  I  am  your  little  sister  now,  so  you  must  love 
me,  Davey.    Aunt  M'ri  told  me  so." 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  lilac-scented  breeze  of  early  morning 
blowing  softly  through  the  vine-latticed 
window  and  stirring  its  white  draperies  brought 
David  to  wakefulness.  With  the  first  surprise 
at  the  strangeness  of  his  surroundings  came  a 
fluttering  of  memory.  The  fragrance  of  lilacs 
was  always  hereafter  to  bring  back  the  awfulness 
of  this  waking  moment. 

He  hurriedly  dressed,  and  went  down  to  the 
kitchen  where  M'ri  was  preparing  breakfast. 

"Good  morning,  David.  Janey  has  gone  to 
find  some  fresh  eggs.  You  may  help  her  hunt 
them,  if  you  will." 

Knowing  the  haunts  of  hens,  he  went  toward 
the  currant  bushes.  It  was  one  of  those  soft 
days  that  link  late  spring  and  dawning  summer. 
The  coolness  of  the  sweet-odored  air,  the  twitter 
of  numberless  dawn  birds,  the  entreating  lowing 
of  distant  cattle — all  breathing  life  and  strength 
— were  like  a  resurrection  call  to  David. 

40 


DAVID   DUNNE 

On  the  east  porch,  which  was  his  retreat  for  a 
smoke  or  a  rest  between  the  intervals  of  choring 
and  meals,  Barnabas  sat,  securely  wedged  in  by 
the  washing  machine,  the  refrigerator,  the  plant 
stand,  the  churn,  the  kerosene  can,  and  the  lawn 
mower.    He  gazed  reflectively  after  David. 

"What  are  you  going  to  hev  Dave  do  to  help, 
M'ri?" 

M'ri  came  to  the  door  and  considered  a  mo- 
ment. 

"First  of  all,  Barnabas,  I  am  going  to  have 
him  eat.    He  is  so  thin  and  hungry  looking." 

Barnabas  chuckled.  His  sister's  happiest  mis- 
sion was  the  feeding  of  hungry  children. 

After  breakfast,  when  Janey's  rebellious 
curls  were  again  being  brushed  into  shape,  M'ri 
told  David  he  could  go  to  school  if  he  liked.  To 
her  surprise  the  boy  flushed  and  looked  uncom- 
fortable. M'ri's  intuitions  were  quick  and  gen- 
erally correct. 

"It 's  so  near  the  end  of  the  term,  though," 
she  added  casually,  as  an  afterthought,  "that 
maybe  you  had  better  wait  until  next  fall  to 
start  in." 

41 


DAVID   DUNNE 

"Yes,  please,  Miss  M'ri,  I  'd  rather,"  he  said 
quickly  and  gratefully. 

When  Janey,  dinner  pail  in  hand  and  books 
under  arm,  was  ready  to  start,  David  asked  in 
surprise  where  Jud  was. 

"Oh,  he  has  gone  long  ago.  He  thinks  he  is 
too  big  to  walk  with  Janey." 

David  quietly  took  the  pail  and  books  from 
the  little  girl. 

"I  '11  take  you  to  school,  Janey,  and  come  for 
you  this  afternoon." 

"We  won't  need  to  git  no  watch  dog  to  f oiler 
Janey,"  said  Barnabas,  as  the  children  started 
down  the  path. 

"David,"  called  M'ri,  "stop  at  Miss  Rhody's 
on  your  way  back  and  find  out  whether  my  waist 
is  finished." 

With  proudly  protective  air,  David  walked 
beside  the  stiffly  starched  little  girl,  who  had 
placed  her  hand  trustfully  in  his.  They  had 
gone  but  a  short  distance  when  they  were  over- 
taken by  Joe  Forbes,  mounted  on  a  shining  black 
horse.  He  reined  up  and  looked  down  on  them 
good-humoredly. 

42 


"With  proudly  protective  air,  David  walked  beside  the  stiffly  starched 
little  girl" 


DAVID   DUNNE 

"Going  to  school,  children?" 

"I  am.  Davey  's  just  going  to  carry  my 
things  for  me,"  explained  Janey. 

"Well,  I  can  do  that  and  carry  you  into  the 
bargain.    Help  her  up,  David." 

Janey  cried  out  in  delight  at  the  prospect  of  a 
ride.  David  lifted  her  up,  and  Joe  settled  her 
comfortably  in  the  saddle,  encircling  her  with 
his  arm.  Then  he  looked  down  whimsically  into 
David's  disappointed  eyes. 

"I  know  it 's  a  mean  trick,  Dave,  to  take  your 
little  sweetheart  from  you." 

"She  's  not  my  sweetheart;  she 's  my  sister." 

"Has  she  promised  to  be  that  already?  Get 
up,  Firefly." 

They  were  off  over  the  smooth  country  road, 
Forbes  shouting  a  bantering  good-by  and  Janey 
waving  a  triumphant  dinner  pail,  while  David, 
trudging  on  his  way,  experienced  the  desolate 
feeling  of  the  one  who  is  left  behind.  Across 
fields  he  came  to  the  tiny,  thatched  cottage  of 
Miss  Rhody  Crabbe,  who  stood  on  the  crumbling 
doorstep  feeding  some  little  turkeys. 

"Come  in,  David.     I  suppose  you  're  after 

43 


DAVID   DUNNE 

M'ri's  waist.  Thar  's  jest  a  few  stitches  to  take, 
and  I  '11  hev  it  done  in  no  time." 

He  followed  her  into  the  little  house,  which 
consisted  of  a  sitting  room  "with  bedroom  off," 
and  a  kitchen  whose  floor  was  sand  scoured ;  the 
few  pieces  of  tinware  could  be  used  as  mirrors. 
Miss  Rhody  seated  herself  by  the  open  window 
and  began  to  ply  her  needle.  She  did  not  sew 
swiftly  and  smoothly,  in  feminine  fashion,  but 
drew  her  long-threaded  needle  through  the  fab- 
ric in  abrupt  and  forceful  jerks.  A  light  breeze 
fluttered  in  through  the  window,  but  it  could  not 
ruffle  the  wisp-locked  hair  that  showed  traces  of 
a  water-dipped  comb  and  was  strained  back  so 
taut  that  a  little  mound  of  flesh  encircled  each 
root.  Her  eyes  were  bead  bright  and  swift  mov- 
ing. Everything  about  her,  to  the  aggressively 
prominent  knuckles,  betokened  energy  and  in- 
dustry. She  was  attired  in  a  blue  calico  short- 
ened by  many  washings,  but  scrupulously  clean 
and  conscientiously  starched.  Her  face  shone 
with  soap  and  serenity. 

Miss  Rhody's  one  diversion  in  a  busy  but 
monotonous  life  was  news.    She  was  wretched  if 

44 


DAVID   DUNNE 

she  did  not  receive  the  latest  bulletins;  but  it 
was  to  her  credit  that  she  never  repeated  any- 
thing that  might  work  harm  or  mischief.  David 
was  one  of  her  chosen  confidants.  He  was  a 
safe  repository  of  secrets,  a  sympathetic  listener, 
and  a  wise  suggester. 

"I  'm  glad  M'ri  's  hevin'  a  blue  waist.  She 
looks  so  sweet  in  blue.  I  've  made  her  clo'es  f  er 
years.  My,  how  I  hoped  fer  to  make  her  wed- 
din'  clo'es  onct!  It  wuz  a  shame  to  hev  sech  a 
good  match  spiled.  It  wuz  too  bad  she  hed  to 
hev  them  two  chillern  on  her  hands — " 

"And  now  she  has  a  third,"  was  what  David 
thought  he  read  in  her  eyes,  and  he  hastened  to 
assert :  "I  am  going  to  help  all  I  can,  and  I  '11 
soon  be  old  enough  to  take  care  of  myself." 

"Land  sakes,  David,  you  'd  be  wuth  more  'n 
yer  keep  to  any  one.  I  wonder,"  she  said  ru- 
minatingly,  "if  Martin  Thorne  will  wait  for  her 
till  Janey's  growed  up." 

"Martin  Thorne!"  exclaimed  David  excitedly. 
"Judge  Thorne?    Why,  was  he  the  one — " 

"He  spent  his  Sunday  evenings  with  her,"  she 
asserted  solemnly. 

45 


DAVID   DUNNE 

In  the  country  code  of  courtships  this  pro- 
cedure was  conclusive  proof,  and  David  accepted 
it  as  such. 

"He  wuz  jest  plain  Lawyer  Thorne  when  he 
wuz  keepin'  company  with  M'ri,  but  we  all  knew 
Mart  wuz  a  comin'  man,  and  M'ri  wuz  jest  proud 
of  him.  You  could  see  that,  and  he  wuz  sot  on 
her." 

Her  work  momentarily  neglected,  Rhody  was 
making  little  reminiscent  stabs  at  space  with  her 
needle  as  she  spoke. 

"  'T  wuz  seven  years  ago.  M'ri  wuz  twenty- 
eight  and  Mart  ten  years  older.  It  would  hev 
ben  a  match  as  sure  as  preachin',  but  Eliza  died 
and  M'ri,  she  done  her  duty  as  she  seen  it.  Some- 
times I  think  folks  is  near-sighted  about  their 
duty.  There  is  others  as  is  queer-sighted.  Bein' 
crossed  hain't  spiled  M'ri  though.  She  's  kep' 
sweet  through  it  all,  but  when  a  man  don't  git 
his  own  way,  he  's  apt  to  curdle.  Mart  got  sort 
of  tart-tongued  and  cold  feelin'.  There  wa'n't 
no  reason  why  they  could  n't  a  kep'  on  bein' 
friends,  but  Mart  must  go  and  make  a  fool  vow 
that  he  'd  never  speak  to  M'ri  until  she  sent  him 

46 


DAVID   DUNNE 

word  she  'd  changed  her  mind,  so  he  hez  ben 
a-spitin'  of  his  face  ever  sence.  It 's  wonderful 
how  some  folks  do  git  in  their  own  way,  but,  my 
sakes,  I  must  git  to  work  so  you  kin  take  this 
waist  home." 

This  was  David's  first  glimpse  of  a  romance 
outside  of  story-books,  but  the  name  of  Martin 
Thorne  evoked  disturbing  memories.  Six  years 
ago  he  had  acted  as  attorney  to  David's  father 
in  settling  his  financial  difficulties,  and  later, 
after  Peter  Dunne's  death,  the  Judge  had  settled 
the  small  estate.  It  was  only  through  his  efforts 
that  they  were  enabled  to  have  the  smallest  of 
roofs  over  their  defenseless  heads. 

"Miss  Rhody,"  he  asked  after  a  long  medita- 
tion on  life  in  general,  "why  did  n't  you  ever 
marry?" 

Miss  Rhody  paused  again  in  her  work,  and 
two  little  spots  of  red  crept  into  her  cheeks. 

"  'Tain't  from  ch'ice  I  Ve  lived  single,  David. 
I  've  ben  able  to  take  keer  of  myself,  but  I  allers 
hed  a  hankerin'  same  as  any  woman,  as  is  a  wo- 
man, hez  f  er  a  man,  but  I  never  got  no  chanst  to 
meet  men  folks.     I  wuz  raised  here,  and  folks 

47 


DAVID   DUNNE 

allers  hed  it  all  cut  out  f  er  me  to  be  an  old  maid. 
When  a  woman  onct  gets  that  name  fixt  on  her, 
it 's  all  off  with  her  chances.  No  man  ever  comes 
nigh  her,  and  she  can't  git  out  of  her  single  rut. 
I  never  could  get  to  go  nowhars,  and  I  wa'n't 
that  bold  kind  that  makes  up  to  a  man  fust,  afore 
he  gives  a  sign." 

David  pondered  over  this  wistful  revelation 
for  a  few  moments,  seeking  a  means  for  her 
seemingly  hopeless  escape  from  a  life  of  single 
blessedness,  for  David  was  a  sympathetic  young 
altruist,  and  felt  it  incumbent  upon  him  to  lift 
the  burdens  of  his  neighbors.  Then  he  sug- 
gested encouragingly: 

"Miss  Rhody,  did  you  know  that  there  was  a 
paper  that  gets  you  acquainted  with  men? 
That 's  the  way  they  say  Zine  Winters  got 
married." 

"Yes,  and  look  what  she  drawed !"  she  scoffed. 
"Bill!  I  don't  know  how  they'd  live  if  Zine 
hadn't  a-gone  in  heavy  on  hens  and  turkeys. 
She  hez  to  spend  her  hull  time  a-traipsin*  after 
them  turkeys,  and  thar  ain't  nuthin'  that 's  given 
to  gaddin'  like  turkeys  that  I  know  on,  less  't  is 

48 


DAVID    DUNNE 

Chubbses'  hired  gal.  No,  David,  it 's  chance 
enough  when  you  git  a  man  you  've  knowed 
allers,  but  a  stranger!  Well!  I  want  to  know 
what  I  'm  gittin'.  Thar,  the  last  stitch  in  M'ri's 
waist  is  took,  and,  David,  you  won't  tell  no  one 
what  I  said  about  Mart  Thorne  and  her,  nor 
about  my  gittin'  merried?" 

David  gave  her  a  reproachful  look,  and  she 
laughed  shamefacedly. 

"I  know,  David,  you  kin  keep  a  secret.  It 's 
like  buryin'  a  thing  to  tell  it  to  you.  My,  this 
waist  '11  look  fine  on  M'ri.  I  jest  love  the  feel 
of  silk.  I  'd  ruther  hev  a  black  silk  dress  than — " 

"A  husband,"  prompted  David  slyly. 

"David  Dunne,  I  '11  box  yer  ears  if  you  ever 
think  again  of  what  I  said.  I  am  alters  a-think- 
in'  of  you  as  if  you  wuz  a  stiddy  grown  man, 
and  then  fust  thing  I  know  you  're  nuthin'  but 
a  teasin'  boy.  Here  's  the  bundle,  and  don't  you 
want  a  nutcake,  David?" 

"No,  thank  you,  Miss  Rhody.  I  ate  a  big 
breakfast." 

A  fellow  feeling  had  prompted  David  even  in 
his  hungriest  days  to  refrain  from  accepting  Miss 

49 

(4) 


DAVID   DUNNE 

Rhody's  proffers  of  hospitality.  He  knew  the 
emptiness  of  her  larder,  for  though  she  had  been 
thrifty  and  hardworking,  she  had  paid  off  a 
mortgage  and  had  made  good  the  liabilities  of 
an  erring  nephew. 

When  David  returned  he  found  Miss  M'ri  in 
the  dairy.  It  was  churning  day,  and  she  was 
arranging  honey-scented,  rose-stamped  pats  of 
butter  on  moist  leaves  of  crisp  lettuce. 

"David,"  she  asked,  looking  up  with  a  win- 
ning smile,  "will  you  tell  me  why  you  did  n't 
want  to  go  to  school?" 

The  boy's  face  reddened,  but  his  eyes  looked 
frankly  into  hers. 

"Yes,  Miss  M'ri." 

"Before  you  tell  me,  David,"  she  interposed, 
"I  want  you  to  remember  that,  from  now  on, 
Barnabas  and  I  are  your  uncle  and  aunt." 

"Well,  then,  Aunt  M'ri,"  began  David,  a  ring 
of  tremulous  eagerness  in  his  voice,  "I  can  read 
and  write  and  spell,  but  I  don't  know  much 
about  arithmetic  and  geography.  I  was  ashamed 
to  start  in  at  the  baby  class.  I  thought  I  'd 
try  and  study  out  of  Jud's  books  this  summer." 

50 


DAVID   DUNNE 

"That 's  a  good  idea,  David.  We  '11  begin 
now.  You  '11  find  an  elementary  geography  in 
the  sitting  room  on  the  shelf,  and  you  may 
study  the  first  lesson.  This  afternoon,  when  my 
work  is  done,  I  '11  hear  you  recite  it." 

David  took  the  book  and  went  out  into  the  old 
orchard.  When  M'ri  went  to  call  him  to  dinner 
he  was  sprawled  out  in  the  latticed  shadow  of 
an  apple  tree,  completely  absorbed  in  the  book. 

"You  have  spent  two  hours  on  your  first 
lesson,  David.  You  ought  to  have  it  well 
learned." 

He  looked  at  her  in  surprise. 

"I  read  the  whole  book  through,  Aunt  M'ri." 

"Oh,  David,"  she  expostulated,  "that 's  the 
way  Barnabas  takes  his  medicine.  Instead  of 
the  prescribed  dose  after  each  meal  he  takes 
three  doses  right  after  breakfast — so  as  to  get 
it  off  his  mind  and  into  his  system,  he  says. 
We  '11  just  have  one  short  lesson  in  geography 
and  one  in  arithmetic  each  day.  You  mustn't 
do  things  in  leaps.  It 's  the  steady  dog  trot 
that  lasts,  and  counts  on  the  long  journey." 

When  David  was  on  his  way  to  bring  Janey 
51 


DAVID   DUNNE 

from  school  that  afternoon  he  was  again  over- 
taken by  Joe  Forbes. 

"Dave,  I  am  going  to  Chicago  in  a  few  days, 
and  I  shall  stop  there  long  enough  to  buy  a  few 
presents  to  send  back  to  some  of  my  friends. 
Here  's  my  list.  Let  me  see,  Uncle  Larimy,  a 
new-fangled  fishing  outfit;  Barnabas,  a  pipe; 
Miss  M'ri — guess,  Dave." 

"You  're  the  guesser,  you  know,"  reminded 
David. 

"It 's  a  new  kind  of  ice-cream  freezer,  of 
course." 

"She  's  going  to  freeze  ice  to-night,"  recalled 
David  anticipatingly. 

"Freeze  ice!  What  a  paradoxical  process! 
But  what  I  want  you  to  suggest  is  something  for 
Miss  Rhody — something  very  nice." 

"What  she  wants  most  is  something  you  can't 
get  her,"  thought  David,  looking  up  with  a  tan- 
talizing little  smile.  Then  her  second  wish  oc- 
curred to  him. 

"I  know  something  she  wants  dreadfully; 
something  she  never  expects  to  have." 

"That  is  just  what  I  want  to  get  for  her." 

52 


DAVID   DUNNE 

"It  '11  cost  a  lot." 

Joe  disposed  of  that  consideration  by  a  munifi- 
cent wave  of  the  hand. 

"What  is  it?" 

"A  black  silk  dress,"  informed  the  boy  de- 
lightedly. 

"She  shall  have  it.  How  many  yards  does  it 
take,  I  wonder?" 

"We  can  ask  Janey's  teacher  when  we  get  to 
school,"  suggested  the  boy. 

"So  we  can.  I  contrived  to  find  out  that 
Janey's  heart  is  set  on  a  string  of  beads — blue 
beads.  I  suppose,  to  be  decent,  I  shall  have  to 
include  Jud.    What  will  it  be?" 

"He  wants  a  gun.    He  's  a  good  shot,  too." 

They  loitered  on  the  way,  discussing  Joe's 
gifts,  until  they  met  Janey  and  Little  Teacher 
coming  toward  them  hand  in  hand.  David 
quickly  secured  the  pail  and  books  before  Joe 
could  appropriate  them.  He  wasn't  going  to 
be  cut  out  a  second  time  in  one  day. 

"Miss  Williams,"  asked  the  young  ranchman, 
"will  your  knowledge  of  mathematics  tell  me  how 
many  yards  of  black  silk  I  must  get  to  make  a 

58 


DAVID   DUNNE 

dress,  and  what  kind  of  fixings  I  shall  need  for 
it?" 

"You  don't  have  to  know,"  she  replied.  "Just 
go  into  any  department  store  and  tell  them  you 
want  a  dress  pattern  and  the  findings.  They 
will  do  the  rest." 

"Shopping  made  easy.  You  shall  have  your 
reward  now.  My  shanty  boat  is  just  about  op- 
posite here.  Suppose  the  four  of  us  go  down 
to  the  river  and  have  supper  on  board?" 

Little  Teacher,  to  whom  life  was  a  vista  of 
blackboards  dotted  with  vacations,  thought  this 
would  be  delightful.  A  passing  child  was  made 
a  messenger  to  the  farm,  and  they  continued 
their  way  woodward  to  the  river,  where  the 
shanty  boat  was  anchored.  Little  Teacher  set  the 
table,  Joe  prepared  the  meal,  while  David  sat 
out  on  deck,  beguiling  Janey  with  wonderful 
stories. 

"This  seems  beautifully  domestic  to  a  cowboy," 
sighed  Joe,  looking  around  the  supper  table,  his 
gaze  lingering  on  Little  Teacher,  who  was  dim- 
pling happily.  Imaginative  David  proceeded  to 
weave  his  third  romance  that  day,  with  a  glad 

54> 


DAVID   DUNNE 

little  beating  of  the  heart,  for  he  had  feared  that 
Joe  might  be  planning  to  wait  for  Janey,  as  the 
Judge  was  doubtless  waiting  for  M'ri. 

The  children  went  directly  home  after  supper, 
Joe  accompanying  Little  Teacher.  Despite  the 
keenness  of  David's  sorrow  the  day  had  been  a 
peaceful,  contented  one,  but  when  the  shadows 
began  to  lengthen  to  that  most  lonesome  hour  of 
lonesome  days,  when  from  home-coming  cows 
comes  the  sound  of  tinkling  bells,  a  wave  of  long- 
ing swept  over  him,  and  he  stole  away  to  the  or- 
chard. Again,  a  soft,  sustaining  little  hand  crept 
into  his. 

"Don't,  Davey,"  pleaded  a  caressing  voice, 
"don't  make  me  cry." 


55 


CHAPTER  IV 

OUTSIDE  of  the  time  allotted  for  the  per- 
formance of  a  wholesome  amount  of  farm 
work  and  the  preparation  of  his  daily  lessons, 
David  was  free  for  diversions  which  had  hitherto 
entered  sparingly  into  his  life.  After  school  hours 
and  on  Saturdays  the  Barnabas  farm  was  the 
general  rendezvous  for  all  the  children  within  a 
three-mile  radius.  The  old  woods  by  the  river 
rang  with  the  gay  treble  of  childish  laughter  and 
the  ecstatic  barking  of  dogs  dashing  in  frantic 
pursuit.  There  was  always  an  open  sesame  to 
the  cookie  jar  and  the  apple  barrel. 

David  suffered  the  common  fate  of  all  in  hav- 
ing a  dark  cloud.  Jud  was  the  dark  cloud,  and 
his  silver  lining  had  not  yet  materialized. 

In  height  and  physical  strength  Jud  was  the 
superior,  so  he  delighted  in  taunting  and  goading 
the  younger  boy.  There  finally  came  a  day 
when  instinctive  self-respect  upheld  David  in 
no  longer  resisting  the  call  to  arms.    Knowing 

56 


DAVID   DUNNE 

Barnabas'  disapproval  of  fighting,  and  with  his 
mother's  parting  admonition  pricking  his  con- 
science, he  went  into  battle  reluctantly  and  half- 
heartedly, so  the  fight  was  not  prolonged,  and 
Jud's  victory  came  easily.  Barnabas,  hurrying 
to  the  scene  of  action,  called  Jud  off  and  repri- 
manded him  for  fighting  a  smaller  boy,  which 
hurt  David  far  more  than  did  the  pummeling  he 
had  received. 

"What  wuz  you  fighting  fer,  anyway?"  he  de- 
manded of  David. 

"Nothing,"  replied  David  laconically,  "just 
fighting." 

"Jud  picks  on  Davey  all  the  time,"  was  the  in- 
formation furnished  by  the  indignant  Janey,  who 
had  followed  her  father. 

"Well,  I  forbid  either  one  of  you  to  fight  again. 
Now,  Jud,  see  that  you  leave  Dave  alone  after 
this." 

Emboldened  by  his  easily  won  conquest  and 
David's  apparent  lack  of  prowess,  Jud  continued 
his  jeering  and  nagging,  but  David  set  his  lips 
in  a  taut  line  of  finality  and  endured  in  silence 
until  there  came  the  taunt  superlative. 

57 


DAVID   DUNNE 

"Your  mother  was  a  washerwoman,  and  your 
father  a  convict." 

There  surged  through  David  a  fierce  animal 
hate.  With  a  tight  closing  of  his  hardy  young 
fist,  he  rushed  to  the  onslaught  so  swiftly  and  so 
impetuously  that  Jud  recoiled  in  fear  and  sur- 
prise. With  his  first  tiger-like  leap  David  had 
the  older  boy  by  the  throat  and  bore  him  to  the 
ground,  maintaining  and  tightening  his  grip  as 
they  went  down. 

"I '11  kill  you!" 

David's  voice  was  steady  and  calm,  but  the 
boy  on  the  ground  underneath  felt  the  very  hairs 
of  his  head  rising  at  the  look  in  the  dark  eyes 
above  his  own. 

Fortunately  for  both  of  them  Barnabas  was 
again  at  hand. 

He  jerked  David  to  his  feet. 

"Fightin'  again,  are  you,  after  I  told  you  not 
to!" 

"It  was  him,  David,  that  began  it.  I  never 
struck  him,"  whimpered  Jud,  edging  away  be- 
hind his  father. 

"Did  you,  David?"  asked  Barnabas  bluntly, 
58 


DAVID   DUNNE 

still  keeping  his  hold  on  the  boy,  who  was  quiver- 
ing with  passion. 

"Yes." 

His  voice  sounded  odd  and  tired,  and  there 
was  an  ache  of  bafflement  in  his  young  eyes. 

"What  fer?  What  did  he  do  to  make  you  so 
mad?" 

"He  said  my  mother  was  a  washerwoman 
and  my  father  a  convict!  Let  me  go!  I  '11  kill 
him!" 

With  a  returning  rush  of  his  passion,  David 
struggled  in  the  man's  grasp. 

"Wait,  Dave,  I  '11  tend  to  him.  Go  to  the 
barn,  Jud!"  he  commanded  his  son. 

Jud  quailed  before  this  new,  strange  note  in 
his  father's  voice. 

"David  was  fighting.  You  said  neither  of  us 
was  to  fight.    'T  ain't  fair  to  take  it  out  on  me." 

Fairness  was  one  of  Barnabas'  fixed  and  prom- 
inent qualities,  but  Jud  was  not  to  gain  favor 
by  it  this  time. 

"Well,  you  don't  suppose  I  'm  a-goin'  to  lick 
Dave  fer  defendin'  his  parents,  do  you?  Besides, 
I  'm  not  a-goin'  to  lick  you  fer  fightin',  but  fer 

59 


DAVID   DUNNE 

savin*  what  you  did.  I  guess  you  'd  hev  found 
out  that  Dave  could  wallop  you  ef  he  is  smaller 
and  younger." 

"He  can't!"  snarled  Jud.  "I  didn't  have  no 
show.    He  came  at  me  by  surprise." 

Barnabas  reflected  a  moment.  Then  he  said 
gravely: 

"When  it 's  in  the  blood  of  two  fellers  to  fight, 
why  thar  's  got  to  be  a  fight,  that 's  all.  Thar 
won't  never  be  no  peace  until  this  ere  question  's 
settled.    Dave,  do  you  still  want  to  fight  him?" 

A  fierce  aftermath  of  passion  gleamed  in 
David's  eyes. 

"Yes !"  he  cried,  his  nostrils  quivering. 

"And  you  '11  fight  fair?  Jest  to  punish — with 
no  thought  of  killin'?" 

"I  '11  fight  fair,"  agreed  the  boy. 

"I  '11  see  that  you  do.    Come  here,  Jud." 

"I  don't  want  to  fight,"  protested  Jud  sullenly. 

"He 's  afraid,"  said  David  gleefully,  every 
muscle  quivering  and  straining. 

"I  ain't!"  yelled  Jud. 

"Come  on,  then,"  challenged  David,  a  fierce 
joy  tugging  at  his  heart. 

60 


DAVID   DUNNE 

Jud  came  with  deliberate  precision  and  a  swing 
of  his  left.  He  was  heavier  and  harder,  but 
David  was  more  agile,  and  his  whole  heart 
was  in  the  fight  this  time.  They  clutched  and 
grappled  and  parried,  and  finally  went  down; 
first  one  was  on  top,  then  the  other.  It  was  the 
wage  of  brute  force  against  elasticity;  bluster 
against  valor.  Jud  fought  in  fear;  David,  in 
ferocity.  At  last  David  bore  his  oppressor  back- 
ward and  downward.  Jud,  exhausted,  ceased  to 
struggle. 

"Thar!"  exclaimed  Barnabas,  drawing  a  re- 
lieved breath.  "I  guess  you  know  how  you  stand 
now,  and  we  '11  all  feel  better.  You  've  got  all 
that 's  comin'  to  you,  Jud,  without  no  more  from 
me.  You  can  both  go  to  the  house  and  wash 
up." 

Uncle  Larimy  had  arrived  at  the  finish  of  the 
fight. 

"What 's  the  trouble,  Barnabas?"  he  asked  in- 
terestedly, as  the  boys  walked  away. 

The  explanation  was  given,  but  they  spoke  in 
tones  so  low  that  David  could  not  overhear  any 
part  of  the  conversation  from  the  men  following 

61 


DAVID   DUNNE 

him  until,  as  they  neared  the  house,  Uncle  Larimy 
said:  "I  was  afeerd  Dave  hed  his  pa's  temper 
snoozin'  inside  him.  Mebby  he  'd  orter  be  told 
fer  a  warnin'." 

"I  don't  want  to  say  nuthin'  about  it  less  I  hev 
to.  I  '11  wait  till  the  next  time  he  loses  his 
temper." 

David  ducked  his  head  in  the  wash  basin  on 
the  bench  outside  the  door.  After  supper,  when 
Barnabas  came  out  on  the  back  porch  for  his 
hour  of  pipe,  he  called  his  young  charge  to  him. 
Since  the  fight,  David's  face  had  worn  a  sub- 
dued but  contented  expression. 

"Looks,"  thought  Barnabas,  "kinder  eased  off, 
like  a  dog  when  he  licks  his  chops  arter  the  taste 
of  blood  has  been  drawed." 

"Set  down,  Dave.  I  want  to  talk  to  you.  You 
done  right  to  fight  fer  yer  folks,  and  you  're  a 
good  fighter,  which  every  boy  orter  be,  but  when 
I  come  up  to  you  and  Jud  I  see  that  in  yer  face 
that  I  did  n't  know  was  in  you.  You  Ve  got  an 
orful  temper,  Dave.  It 's  a  good  thing  to  hev — 
a  mighty  good  thing,  if  you  kin  take  keer  of  it, 
but  if  you  let  it  go  it 's  what  leads  to  murder. 

62 


DAVID   DUNNE 

Your  pa  hed  the  same  kind  of  let-loose  temper 
that  got  him  into  heaps  of  trouble." 

"What  did  my  father  do?"  he  asked  abruptly. 

Instinctively  he  had  shrunk  from  asking  his 
mother  this  question,  and  pride  had  forbidden  his 
seeking  the  knowledge  elsewhere. 

"Some  day,  when  you  are  older,  you  will  know 
all  about  it.  But  remember,  when  any  one  says 
anything  like  what  Jud  did,  that  yer  ma  would  n't 
want  fer  you  to  hev  thoughts  of  killin'.  You 
see,  you  fought  jest  as  well — probably  better — 
when  you  hed  cooled  off  a  mite  and  hed  promised 
to  fight  fair.  And  ef  you  can't  wrastle  your 
temper  and  down  it  as  you  did  Jud,  you  're  not 
a  fust-class  fighter." 

"I  '11  try,"  said  David  slowly,  unable,  however, 
to  feel  much  remorse  for  his  outbreak. 

"Jud  '11  let  you  alone  arter  this.  You  'd  bet- 
ter go  to  bed  now.    You  need  a  little  extry  sleep." 

M'ri  came  into  his  room  when  he  was  trying  to 
mend  a  long  rent  in  his  shirt.  He  flushed  un- 
comfortably when  her  eye  fell  on  the  garment. 
She  took  it  from  him. 

"I  '11  mend  it,  David.     I  don't  wonder  that 

63 


DAVID    DUNNE 

your  patience  slipped  its  leash,  but — never  fight 
when  you  have  murder  in  your  heart." 

When  she  had  left  the  room,  Janey's  face,  pink 
and  fair  as  a  baby  rose,  looked  in  at  the  door. 

"It 's  very  wicked  to  fight  and  get  so  mad, 
Davey." 

"I  know  it,"  he  acknowledged  readily.  It  was 
useless  trying  to  make  a  girl  understand. 

There  was  a  silence.    Janey  still  lingered. 

"Davey,"  she  asked  in  an  awed  whisper,  "does 
it  feel  nice  to  be  wicked?" 

David  shook  his  head  non-committaUy. 


64 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  rather  strained  relations  between  Jud 
and  David  were  eased  the  next  day  by  the 
excitement  attending  the  big  package  Barnabas 
brought  from  town.  It  was  addressed  to 
David,  but  the  removal  of  the  outer  wrapping 
disclosed  a  number  of  parcels  neatly  labeled, 
also  a  note  from  Joe,  asking  him  to  distribute 
the  presents. 

David  first  selected  the  parcel  marked 
"Janey"  and  handed  it  to  her. 

"Blue  beads!"  she  cried  ecstatically. 

"Let  me  see,  Janey,"  said  M'ri.  "Why, 
they  're  real  turquoises  and  with  a  gold  clasp ! 
I  '11  get  you  a  string  of  blue  beads  for  now, 
and  you  can  put  these  away  till  you  're  grown 
up." 

"I  did  n't  tell  Joe  what  to  get  for  you,  Aunt 
M'ri;  honest,  I  didn't,"  disclaimed  David,  with 
a  laugh,  as  he  handed  the  freezer  to  her. 

"We  '11  initiate  it  this  very  day,  David." 

65 

(5) 


DAVID   DUNNE 

David  handed  Barnabas  his  pipe  and  gave 
Jud  a  letter  which  he  opened  wonderingly, 
uttering  a  cry  of  pleasure  when  he  realized 
the  contents. 

"It 's  an  order  on  Harkness  to  let  me  pick 
out  any  rifle  in  his  store.  How  did  he  know? 
Did  you  tell  him,  Dave?" 

"Yes,"  was  the  quiet  reply. 

"Thank  you,  Dave.  I  '11  ride  right  down  and 
get  it,  and  we  '11  go  to  the  woods  this  afternoon 
and  shoot  at  a  mark." 

"All  right,"  agreed  David  heartily. 

The  atmosphere  was  now  quite  cleared  by 
the  proposed  expenditure  of  ammunition,  and 
M'ri  experienced  the  sensation  as  of  one  behold- 
ing a  rainbow. 

David  then  turned  his  undivided  attention  to 
his  own  big  package,  which  contained  twelve 
books,  his  name  on  the  fly-leaf  of  each.  Robin- 
son Crusoe,  Swiss  Family  Robinson,  Andersen's 
Fairy  Tales,  Arabian  Nights,  Life  of  Lincoln, 
Black  Beauty,  Oliver  Twist,  A  Thousand 
Leagues  under  the  Sea,  The  Pathfinder,  Gul- 
liver's Travels,  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin,  and  Young 

66 


DAVID   DUNNE 

Ranchers   comprised  the   selection.     His   eyes 
gleamed  over  the  enticing  titles. 

"You  shall  have  some  book  shelves  for  your 
room,  David,"  promised  M'ri,  "and  you  can 
start  your  library.  Joe  has  made  a  good  foun- 
dation for  one." 

His  eyes  longed  to  read  at  once,  but  there 
were  still  the  two  packages,  marked  "Uncle 
Larimy"  and  "Miss  Rhody,"  to  deliver. 

"I  can  see  that  Uncle  Larimy  has  a  fishing 
rod,  but  what  do  you  suppose  he  has  sent 
Rhody?"  wondered  M'ri. 

"A  black  silk  dress.  I  told  him  she  wanted 
one." 

"Take  it  right  over  there,  David.  She  has 
waited  almost  a  lifetime  for  it." 

"Let  me  take  Uncle  Larimy's  present,"  sug- 
gested Jud,  "and  then  I  '11  ask  him  to  go  shoot- 
ing with  us  this  afternoon." 

David  amicably  agreed,  and  went  across  fields 
to  Miss  Rhody's. 

"Land  sakes!"  she  exclaimed,  looking  at  the 
parcel.  "M'ri  ain't  a-goin'  to  hev  another  dress 
so  soon,  is  she?" 

67  i 


DAVID   DUNNE 

"No,  Miss  Rhody.  Some  one  else  is, 
though." 

"Who  is  it,  David?"  she  asked  curiously. 

"You  see  Joe  Forbes  sent  some  presents  from 
Chicago,  and  this  is  what  he  sent  you." 

"A  calico,"  was  her  divination,  as  she  opened 
the  package. 

"David  Dunne!"  she  cried  in  shrill,  piping 
tones,  a  spot  of  red  on  each  cheek.  "Just  look 
here!"  and  she  stroked  lovingly  the  lustrous  fold 
of  shining  silk. 

"And  if  here  ain't  linings,  and  thread,  and 
sewing  silk,  and  hooks  and  eyes!  Why,  David 
Dunne,  it  can't  be  true!  How  did  he  know — 
David,  you  blessed  boy,  you  must  have  told 
him!" 

Impulsively  she  threw  her  arms  about  him 
and  hugged  him  until  he  ruefully  admitted  to 
himself  that  she  had  Jud  "beat  on  the  clutch." 

"And  say,  David,  I  'm  a-goin'  to  wear  this 
dress.  I  know  folks  as  lets  their  silks  wear  out 
a-hangin'  up  in  closets.  Don't  get  half  as  many 
cracks  when  it  hangs  on  yourself.  I  b'lieve  as 
them  Episcopals  do  in  lettin'  yer  light  shine, 

68 


DAVID   DUNNE 

and  I  never  wuz  one  of  them  as  b'lieved  in 
savin'  yer  best  to  be  laid  out  in.  Oh,  Lord, 
David,  I  kin  jest  hear  myself  a-rustlin'  round 
in  it!" 

"Maybe  you  '11  get  a  husband  now,"  suggested 
David  gravely. 

"Mebby.  I  'd  orter  ketch  somethin'  with  this. 
I  never  see  sech  silk.  It 's  much  handsomer  than 
the  one  Homer  Bisbee's  bride  hed  when  she 
come  here  from  the  city.  It 's  orful  the  way 
she  wastes.  Would  you  b'lieve  it,  David,  the 
fust  batch  of  pies  she  made,  she  never  pricked, 
and  they  all  puffed  up  and  bust.  David,  look 
here!  What's  in  this  envy  lope?  Forever  and 
way  back,  ef  it  hain't  a  five-doller  bill  and  a 
letter.  I  hain't  got  my  glasses  handy.  Read 
it." 

"Dear  Miss  Rhody,"  read  the  boy  in  his 
musical  voice,  "silk  is  none  too  good  for  you,  and 
I  want  you  to  wear  this  and  wear  it  out.  If 
you  don't,  I  '11  never  send  you  another.  I 
thought  you  might  want  some  more  trimmings, 
so  I  send  you  a  five  for  same.  Sincerely  yours, 
Joe." 

69 


DAVID   DUNNE 

"I  don't  need  no  trimmin's,  excep'  fifty  cents 
for  roochin's." 

"I  '11  tell  you  what  to  do,  Miss  Rhody.  When 
you  get  your  dress  made  we  '11  go  into  town  and 
you  can  get  your  picture  taken  in  the  dress  and 
give  it  to  Joe  when  he  comes  back." 

"That 's  jest  what  I  '11  do.  I  never  hed  my 
likeness  took.  David,  you  Ve  got  an  orful  quick 
mind.  Is  Joe  coming  home?  I  thought  he  cal- 
lated  to  go  West." 

"Not  until  fall.  He 's  going  to  spend  the 
summer  in  his  shanty  boat  on  the  river." 

"I  '11  hurry  up  and  get  it  made  up  afore  he 
comes.    Tell  me  what  he  sent  all  your  folks." 

"Joe  's  a  generous  boy,  like  his  ma's  folks," 
she  continued,  when  he  had  enumerated  their 
gifts.  "I  am  glad  fer  him  that  his  pa  and  his 
stepmother  was  so  scrimpin'.  David,  would  you 
b'lieve  it,  in  that  great  big  house  of  the  Forbeses 
thar  wa'n't  never  a  tidy  on  a  chair,  and  not  a 
picter  on  the  wall!  It  was  mighty  lucky  for 
Joe  that  his  stepmother  died  fust,  so  he  got  all 
the  money." 

David  hastened  home  and  sought  his  retreat 

70 


DAVID   DUNNE 

in  the  orchard  with  one  of  his  books.  M'ri, 
curious  to  know  what  his  selection  had  been, 
scanned  the  titles  of  the  remaining  eleven 
volumes. 

"Well,  who  would  have  thought  of  a  boy's 
preferring  fairy  tales!" 

David  read  until  dinner  time,  but  spent  the 
afternoon  with  Uncle  Larimy  and  Jud  in  the 
woods,  where  they  received  good  instruction  in 
rifle  practice.  After  supper  he  settled  com- 
fortably down  with  a  book,  from  which  he  was 
recalled  by  a  plaintive  little  wail. 

"I  haven't  had  a  bit  of  fun  to-day,  Davey, 
and  it 's  Saturday,  and  you  have  n't  played  with 
me  at  all!" 

The  book  closed  instantly. 

"Come  on  out  doors,  Janey,"  he  invited. 

The  sound  of  childish  laughter  fell  pleasantly 
on  M'ri's  ears.  She  recalled  what  Joe  Forbes 
had  said  about  her  own  children,  and  an  unbid- 
den tear  lingered  on  her  lashes.  This  little 
space  between  twilight  and  lamplight  was  M'ri's 
favorite  hour.  In  every  season  but  winter  it 
was  spent  on  the  west  porch,  where  she  could 

71 


DAVID   DUNNE 

watch  the  moon  and  the  stars  come  out.  May- 
be, too,  it  was  because  from  here  she  had  been 
wont  to  sit  in  days  gone  by  and  watch  for  Mar- 
tin's coming.  The  time  and  place  were  con- 
ducive to  backward  flights  of  memory,  and 
M'ri's  pictures  of  the  past  were  most  beguiling, 
except  that  last  one  when  Martin  Thorne,  stern- 
faced,  unrelenting,  and  vowing  that  he  would 
never  see  her  again,  had  left  her  alone — to  do 
her  duty. 

When  the  children  came  in  she  joined  them. 
Janey,  flushed  and  breathless  from  play,  was 
curled  up  on  the  couch  beside  David.  He  put 
his  arm  caressingly  about  her  and  began  to 
relate  one  of  Andersen's  fairy  tales.  M'ri  gazed 
at  them  tenderly,  and  was  weaving  a  future  lit- 
tle romance  for  her  two  young  charges  when 
Janey  said  petulantly:  "I  don't  like  fairy 
stories,  Davey.    Tell  a  real  one." 

M'ri  noted  the  disappointment  in  the  boy's 
eyes  as  he  began  the  narrating  of  a  more  realis- 
tic story. 

"David,  where  did  you  read  that  story?"  she 
asked  when  he  had  finished. 

72 


DAVID   DUNNE 

"I  made  it  up,"  he  confessed. 

"Why,  David,  I  did  n't  know  you  had  such  a 
talent.  You  must  be  an  author  when  you  are 
a  man." 

Late  that  night  she  saw  a  light  shining  from 
beneath  the  young  narrator's  door. 

"I  ought  to  send  him  to  bed,"  she  meditated, 
"but,  poor  lad,  he  has  had  so  few  pleasures  and, 
after  all,  childhood  is  the  only  time  for  thorough 
enjoyment,  so  why  should  I  put  a  feather  in  its 
path?" 

David  read  until  after  midnight,  and  went  to 
bed  with  a  book  under  his  pillow  that  he  might 
begin  his  pastime  again  at  dawn. 

After  breakfast  the  next  morning  M'ri  com- 
manded the  whole  family  to  sit  down  and  write 
their  thanks  to  Joe.  David's  willing  pen  flew 
in  pace  with  his  thoughts  as  he  told  of  Miss 
Rhody's  delight  and  his  own  revel  in  book 
land.  Janey  made  most  wretched  work  of  her 
composition.  She  sighed  and  struggled  with 
thoughts  and  pencil,  which  she  gnawed  at  both 
ends.  Finally  she  confessed  that  she  could  n't 
think  of  anything  more  to  say.     M'ri  came  to 

78 


DAVID   DUNNE 

inspect  her  literary  effort,  which  was  written  in 
huge  characters. 

"Dear  Joe—" 

"Oh,"  commented  M'ri  doubtfully,  "I  don't 
know  as  you  should  address  him  so  familiarly." 

"I  called  him  'Joe'  when  we  rode  to  school. 
He  told  me  to,"  defended  Janey. 

"He  's  just  like  a  boy,"  suggested  David. 

So  M'ri,  silenced,  read  on:  "I  thank  you  for 
your  beyewtifull  present  which  I  cannot  have." 

"Oh,  Janey,"  expostulated  M'ri,  laughing; 
"that  doesn't  sound  very  gracious." 

"Well,  you  said  I  couldn't  have  them  till  I 
was  grown  up." 

"I  was  wrong,"  admitted  M'ri.  "I  didn't 
realize  it  then.  We  have  to  see  a  thing  written 
sometimes  to  know  how  it  sounds." 

"May  I  wear  them?"  asked  Janey  exultingly. 
"May  I  put  them  on  now?" 

"Yes,"  consented  M'ri. 

Janey  flew  upstairs  and  came  back  wearing 
the  adored  turquoises,  which  made  her  eyes  most 
beautifully  blue. 

"Now  I  can  write,"  she  affirmed,  taking  up 

74 


DAVID   DUNNE 

her  pencil  with  the  impetus  of  an  incentive. 
Under  the  inspiration  of  the  beads  around  her 
neck,  she  wrote: 

"Dear  Joe: 

"I  am  wareing  the  bey ewti full  beeds  you  sent  me  around 
my  neck.  Aunt  Merl  says  they  are  terkwoyses.  I  never 
had  such  nice  beeds  and  I  thank  you.  I  wish  I  cood  ride 
with  you  agen.     Good  bye.     From  your  frend, 

"Janey." 


75 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  next  day  being  town  day,  David 
"hooked  up"  Old  Hundred  and  drove  to 
the  house.  After  the  butter  crock,  egg  pails, 
and  kerosene  and  gasoline  cans  had  been  piled 
in,  Barnabas  squeezed  into  the  space  beside 
David.  M'ri  came  out  with  a  memorandum  of 
supplies  for  them  to  get  in  town.  To  David 
she  handed  a  big  bunch  of  spicy,  pink  June 
roses. 

"What  shall  I  do  with  them?"  he  asked  won- 
deringly. 

"Give  them  to  some  one  who  looks  as  if  he 
needed  flowers,"  she  replied. 

"I  will,"  declared  the  boy  interestedly.  "I 
will  watch  them  all  and  see  how  they  look  at  the 
roses." 

At  last  M'ri  had  a  kindred  spirit  in  her  house- 
hold. Jud  would  have  sneered,  and  Janey 
would  not  have  understood.  To  Barnabas  all 
flowers  looked  alike. 

76 


DAVID   DUNNE 

It  had  come  to  be  a  custom  for  Barnabas  to 
take  David  to  town  with  him  at  least  once  a 
week.  The  trip  was  necessarily  a  slow  one,  for 
from  almost  every  farmhouse  he  received  a  pe- 
tition to  "do  a  little  errand  in  town."  As  the 
good  nature  and  accommodating  tendency  of 
Barnabas  were  well  known,  they  were  accord- 
ingly imposed  upon.  He  received  commissions 
of  every  character,  from  the  purchase  of  a  corn 
sheller  to  the  matching  of  a  blue  ribbon.  He 
also  stopped  to  pick  up  a  child  or  two  en  route 
to  school  or  to  give  a  lift  to  a  weary  pedestrian 
whom  he  overtook. 

While  Barnabas  made  his  usual  rounds  of 
the  groceries,  meatmarket,  drug  store,  mill, 
feed  store,  general  store,  and  a  hotel  where  he 
was  well  known,  David  was  free  to  go  where 
he  liked.  Usually  he  accompanied  Barnabas, 
but  to-day  he  walked  slowly  up  the  principal 
business  street,  watching  for  "one  who  needed 
flowers."  Many  glances  were  bestowed  upon 
the  roses,  some  admiring,  some  careless,  and  then 
— his  heart  almost  stopped  beating  at  the  signi- 
ficance— Judge    Thorne    came    by.      He?    too, 

77 


DAVID   DUNNE 

glanced  at  the  roses.  His  gaze  lingered,  and  a 
look  came  into  his  eyes  that  stimulated  David's 
passion  for  romance. 

"He  's  remembering,"  he  thought  joyfully. 

He  did  n't  hesitate  even  an  instant.  He 
stopped  in  front  of  the  Judge  and  extended  the 
flowers. 

"Would  you  like  these  roses,  Judge  Thorne?" 
he  asked  courteously. 

Then  for  the  first  time  the  Judge's  attention 
was  diverted  from  the  flowers. 

"Your  face  is  familiar,  my  lad,  but — " 

"My  name  is  David  Dunne." 

"Yes,  to  be  sure,  but  it  must  be  four  years 
or  more  since  I  last  saw  you.  How 's  your 
mother  getting  along?" 

The  boy's  face  paled. 

"She  died  three  weeks  ago,"  he  answered. 

"Oh,  my  lad,"  he  exclaimed  in  shocked  tones, 
"I  didn't  know!  I  only  returned  last  night 
from  a  long  journey.  But  with  whom  are  you 
living?" 

"With  Aunt  M'ri  and  Uncle  Barnabas." 

"Oh!" 

78 


DAVID   DUNNE 

The  impressive  silence  following  this  excla- 
mation was  broken  by  the  Judge. 

"Why  do  you  offer  me  these  flowers,  David?" 

"Aunt  M'ri  picked  them  and  told  me  to  give 
them  to  some  one  who  looked  as  if  they  needed 
flowers." 

The  Judge  eyed  him  with  the  keen  scrutiny  of 
the  trained  lawyer,  but  the  boy's  face  was  non- 
committal. 

"Come  up  into  my  office  with  me,  David," 
commanded  the  Judge,  turning  quickly  into  a 
near-by  stairway.  David  followed  up  the  stairs 
and  into  a  suite  of  well-appointed  offices. 

A  clerk  looked  up  in  surprise  at  the  sight  of 
the  dignified  judge  carrying  a  bouquet  of  old- 
fashioned  roses  and  accompanied  by  a  country 
lad. 

"Good  morning,  Mathews.  I  am  engaged,  if 
any  one  comes." 

He  preceded  David  into  a  room  on  whose 
outer  door  was  the  deterrent  word,  "Private." 

While  the  Judge  got  a  pitcher  of  water  to 
hold  the  flowers  David  crossed  the  room.  On 
a  table  near  the  window  was  a  rack  of  books 

79 


DAVID   DUNNE 

which  he  eagerly  inspected.  To  his  delight  he 
saw  a  volume  of  Andersen's  Fairy  Tales.  In- 
stantly the  book  was  opened,  and  he  was  devour- 
ing a  story. 

"David,"  spoke  the  Judge  from  the  other  end 
of  the  room,  "did  n't  these  roses  grow  on  a  bush 
by  the  west  porch?" 

There  was  no  answer. 

The  Judge,  remarking  the  boy's  absorption, 
came  to  see  what  he  was  reading. 

"Andersen's  Fairy  Tales!  My  favorite  book. 
I  didn't  know  that  boys  liked  fairy  stories." 

David  looked  up  quickly. 

"I  didn't  know  that  lawyers  did,  either." 

"Well,  I  do,  David.  They  are  my  most  de- 
lightful diversion." 

"Girls  don't  like  fairy  stories,"  mused  David. 
"Anyway,  Janey  does  n't.  I  have  to  tell  true 
stories  to  please  her." 

"Oh,  you  are  a  yarner,  are  you?" 

"Yes,"  admitted  David  modestly.  "Aunt 
M'ri  thinks  I  will  be  a  writer  when  I  grow  up, 
but  I  think  I  should  like  to  be  a  lawyer." 

"David,"  asked  the  Judge  abruptly,  "did 
80 


DAVID   DUNNE 

Miss  Brumble  tell  you  to  give  me  those  roses?" 

With  a  wild  flashing  of  eyes  the  Dunne  tem- 
per awoke,  and  the  boy's  under  jaw  shot 
forward. 

"No!"  he  answered  fiercely.  "She  didn't 
know  that  I  know — " 

He  paused  in  mid-channel  of  such  deep 
waters. 

"That  you  know  what?"  demanded  the  Judge 
in  his  cross-examining  tone. 

David  was  doubtful  of  the  consequences  of 
his  temerity,  but  he  stood  his  ground. 

"I  can't  tell  you  what,  because  I  promised 
not  to.  Some  one  was  just  thinking  out  loud, 
and  I  overheard." 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment. 

"David,  I  remember  your  father  telling  me, 
years  ago,  that  he  had  a  little  son  with  a  big  imag- 
ination which  his  mother  fed  by  telling  stories 
every  night  at  bedtime." 

"Will  you  tell  me,"  asked  David  earnestly, 
"about  my  father?  What  was  it  he  did?  Uncle 
Barnabas  told  me  something  about  his  trouble 
last  Saturday." 

81 

(6) 


DAVID   DUNNE 

"How  did  he  come  to  mention  your  father  to 
you?" 

David  reddened. 

"Jud  twitted  me  about  my  mother  taking  in 
washing  and  about  my  father  being  a  convict, 
and  I  knocked  him  down.  I  told  him  I  would 
kill  him.    Uncle  Barnabas  pulled  me  off." 

"And  then?" 

"Then  he  let  us  fight  it  out." 

"And  you  licked?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  replied  the  boy,  with  proud 
modesty. 

"You  naturally  would,  with  that  under  jaw, 
but  it 's  the  animal  in  us  that  makes  us  want  to 
kill,  and  the  man  in  us  should  rise  above  the 
animal.  I  think  I  am  the  person  to  tell  you 
about  your  father.  He  had  every  reason  to 
make  good,  but  he  was  unfortunate  in  his  choice 
of  associates  and  he  acquired  some  of  their 
habits.  He  had  a  violent  temper,  and  one  night 
when  he  was — " 

"Drunk,"  supplied  David  gravely. 

"He  became  angry  with  one  of  his  friends 
and  tried  to  kill  him.     Your  father  was  given 

82 


DAVID   DUNNE 

a  comparatively  short  sentence,  which  he  had 
almost  served  when  he  died.  You  must  guard 
against  your  temper  and  cultivate  patience  and 
endurance — qualities  your  mother  possessed." 

It  suddenly  and  overwhelmingly  flashed 
across  David  what  need  his  mother  must  have 
had  for  such  traits,  and  he  turned  away  to  force 
back  his  tears.  The  Judge  saw  the  heaving  of 
the  slender,  square,  young  shoulders,  and  the 
gray  eyes  that  were  wont  to  look  so  coldly  upon 
the  world  and  its  people  grew  soft  and  sur- 
prisingly moist. 

"It 's  past  now,  David,  and  can  't  be  helped, 
but  you  are  going  to  aim  to  be  the  kind  of  man 
your  mother  would  want  you  to  be.  You  must 
learn  to  put  up  with  Jud's  tyranny  because  his 
father  and  his  aunt  are  your  benefactors.  I 
have  been  away  the  greater  part  of  the  time 
since  your  father's  death,  or  I  should  have  kept 
track  of  you  and  your  mother.  Every  time  you 
come  to  town  I  want  you  to  come  up  here  and 
report  to  me.    Will  you?" 

"Thank  you,  sir.  And  I  will  bring  you  some 
more  flowers," 

83 


CHAPTER  VII 

4  t\\  7HAR  wuz  you,  Dave,  all  the  time  we 
*  *  wuz  in  town?"  asked  Barnabas,  as  they 
drove  homeward. 

"In  Judge  Thome's  office." 

"Judge  Thome's  office!    What  fer?" 

"He  asked  me  there,  Uncle  Barnabas.  He 
was  my  father's  lawyer  once,  you  know." 

"So  he  wuz.    I  hed  fergot." 

"He  warned  me  against  my  temper,  as  you 
did,  and  he  told  me — all  about  my  father." 

"I  am  glad  he  did,  Dave.  He  wuz  the  one 
to  tell  you." 

"He  says  that  every  time  I  come  to  Laffer- 
ton  I  must  come  up  and  report  to  him." 

"Wal,  Dave,  it  does  beat  all  how  folks  take 
to  you.  Thar  wuz  Joe  wanted  you,  and  now 
Mart  Thome's  interested.  Mebby  they  could 
do  better  by  you  than  we  could.  Joe's  rich,  and 
the  Jedge  is  well  fixed  and  almighty  smart." 

"No,"   replied  David  stoutly.     "I'd  rather 

84 


DAVID   DUNNE 

stay  with  you,  Uncle  Barnabas.  There 's 
something  you  've  got  much  more  of  than  they 
have." 

"What's  that,  Dave?"  asked  Barnabas  curi- 
ously. 

"Horse  sense." 

Barnabas  looked  pleased. 

"Wal,  Dave,  I  callate  to  do  my  best  fer  you, 
and  thar  's  one  thing  I  want  you  to  git  some 
horse  sense  about  right  off." 

"All  right,  Uncle  Barnabas.    What  is  it?" 

"Feedin'  on  them  fairy  stories  all  day.  They 
hain't  hullsome  diet  fer  a  boy." 

"The  Judge  reads  them,"  protested  David. 
"He  has  that  same  book  of  fairy  stories  that 
Joe  gave  me." 

"When  you  Ve  done  all  the  Jedge  has,  and 
git  to  whar  you  kin  afford  to  be  idle,  you  kin 
read  any  stuff  you  want  ter." 

"Can't  I  read  them  at  all?"  asked  David  in 
alarm. 

"Of  course  you  kin.  I  meant,  I  did  n't  want 
you  stickin'  to  'em  like  a  pup  to  a  root.  You  're 
goin'  down  to  the  fields  to  begin  work  with  me 

85 


DAVID   DUNNE 

this  arternoon,  and  you  won't  feel  much  like 
readin'  to-night.  I  wuz  lookin'  over  them  books 
of  your'n  last  night.  Thar  's  one  you  'd  best 
start  in  on  right  away,  and  give  the  fairies  a 
rest." 

"Which  one?" 

"Life  of  Lincoln.  That  '11  show  you  what 
work  will  do." 

"  I  '11  read  it  aloud  to  you,  Uncle  Barnabas." 

When  they  reached  the  bridge  that  spanned 
the  river  Old  Hundred  dropped  the  little  hurry- 
ing gait  which  he  assumed  in  town,  and  settled 
down  to  his  normal,  comfortable,  country  jog. 

"Uncle  Barnabas,"  said  David  thoughtfully, 
"what  is  your  religion?" 

Barnabas  meditated. 

"Wal,  Dave,  I  don't  know  as  I  hev  what  you 
might  call  religion  exackly.  I  b'lieve  in  payin' 
a  hundred  cents  on  the  dollar,  and  a-helpin'  the 
man  that 's  down,  and — wal,  I  s'pose  I  come 
as  nigh  bein'  a  Unitarian  as  anything." 

The  distribution  of  the  purchases  now  began. 
Sometimes  the  good  housewife,  herself,  came 
out  to  receive  the  parcels  and  to  hear  the  latest 

86 


DAVID   DUNNE 

news  from  town.  Oftener,  the  children  of  the 
household  were  the  messengers,  for  Barnabas' 
pockets  were  always  well  filled  with  candy  on 
town  days.  At  one  place  Barnabas  stopped 
at  a  barn  by  the  roadside  and  surreptitiously 
deposited  a  suspicious  looking  package.  When 
he  was  in  front  of  the  next  farmhouse  a  man 
came  out  with  anxious  mien. 

"All  right,  Fred!"  hailed  Barnabas  with  a 
knowing  wink.  "I  was  afeerd  you  'd  not  be  on 
the  watchout.    I  left  it  in  the  manger." 

They  did  not  reach  the  farm  until  the  dinner 
hour,  and  the  conversation  was  maintained  by 
M'ri  and  Barnabas  on  marketing  matters. 
David  spent  the  afternoon  in  being  initiated  in 
field  work.  At  supper,  M'ri  asked  him  sud- 
denly: 

"To  whom  did  you  give  the  flowers,  David?" 

"I  've  made  a  story  to  it,  Aunt  M'ri,  and 
I  'm  going  to  tell  it  to  Janey.  Then  you  can 
hear." 

M'ri  smiled,  and  questioned  him  no  further. 

When  the  day  was  done  and  the  "still  hour" 
had   come,   Janey  and  David,   hand  in   hand, 

87 


DAVID   DUNNE 

came  around  the  house  and  sat  down  at  her  feet. 
It  was  seldom  that  any  one  intruded  at  this 
hour,  but  she  knew  that  David  had  come  to  tell 
his  story. 

"Begin,  Davey,"  urged  Janey  impatiently. 

"One  day,  when  a  boy  was  going  to  town, 
his  aunt  gave  him  a  big  bouquet  of  pink  roses. 
She  told  him  to  give  them  to  some  one  who 
looked  as  if  they  needed  flowers.  So  when  the 
boy  got  to  town  he  walked  up  Main  Street  and 
looked  at  every  one  he  met.  He  hoped  to  see 
a  little  sick  child  or  a  tired  woman  who  had  no 
flowers  of  her  own;  but  every  one  seemed  to  be 
in  a  hurry,  and  very  few  stopped  to  look  at 
flowers  or  anything  else.  Those  that  did  look 
turned  away  as  if  they  did  not  see  them,  and 
some  seemed  to  be  thinking,  'What  beautiful 
flowers!'  and  then  forgot  them. 

"At  last  he  met  a  tall,  stern  man  dressed  in 
fine  clothes.  He  looked  very  proud,  but  as  if 
he  were  tired  of  everything.  When  he  saw  the 
flowers  he  didn't  turn  away,  but  kept  his  eyes 
on  them  as  if  they  made  him  sad  and  lonesome 
in  thinking  of  good  times  that  were  over.     So 

88 


DAVID   DUNNE 

the  boy  asked  him  if  he  would  not  like  the 
flowers.  The  man  looked  surprised  and  asked 
the  boy  what  his  name  was.  When  he  heard  it, 
he  remembered  that  he  had  been  attorney  for 
the  boy's  father.  He  took  him  up  into  an 
office  marked  private,  and  he  gave  the  boy  some 
good  advice,  and  talked  to  him  about  his 
mother,  which  made  the  boy  feel  bad.  But  the 
man  comforted  him  and  told  him  that  every 
time  he  came  to  town  he  was  to  report  to  him." 

M'ri  had  sat  motionless  during  the  recital  of 
this  story.    At  its  close  she  did  not  speak. 

"That  was  n't  much  of  a  story.  Let 's  go 
play,"  suggested  Janey,  relieving  the  tension. 

They  were  off  like  a  flash.  David  heard  his 
name  faintly  called.  M'ri's  voice  sounded  far 
off,  and  as  if  there  were  tears  in  it,  but  he 
lacked  the  courage  to  return. 


89 


CHAPTER  VIII 

TWO  important  events  calendared  the  next 
week.  The  school  year  ended  and  Penny- 
royal, the  "hired  help,"  who  had  been  paying 
her  annual  visit  to  her  sister,  came  back  to  the 
farm.  There  are  two  kinds  of  housekeepers, 
the  "make-cleans"  and  the  "keep-cleans." 
Pennyroyal  was  a  graduate  of  both  classes.  Her 
ruling  passions  in  life  were  scrubbing  and  "red- 
ding" up.  On  the  day  of  her  return,  after 
making  onslaught  on  house  and  porches,  she 
attacked  the  pump,  and  planned  a  sand-scour- 
ing siege  for  the  morrow  on  the  barn.  In 
appearance  she  was  a  true  exponent  of  soap  and 
water,  and  always  had  the  look  of  being  freshly 
laundered. 

At  first  Pennyroyal  looked  with  ill  favor  on 
the  addition  that  had  been  made  to  the  house- 
hold in  her  absence,  but  when  David  submitted 
to  the  shampooing  of  his  tousled  mass  of  hair, 

90 


DAVID   DUNNE 

and  offered  no  protest  when  she  scrubbed  his 
neck,  she  became  reconciled  to  his  presence. 

On  a  "town  day"  David,  carrying  a  huge 
bunch  of  pinks,  paid  his  second  visit  to  the 
Judge. 

"Did  she  tell  you,"  asked  the  tall  man,  gazing 
very  hard  at  the  landscape  without  the  open 
window,  "to  give  these  flowers  to  some  one  who 
needed  them?" 

There  was  a  perilous  little  pause.  Then  there 
flashed  from  the  boy  to  the  man  a  gaze  of  com- 
prehension. 

"She  picked  them  for  you,"  was  the  response, 
simply  spoken. 

The  Judge  carefully  selected  a  blossom  for 
his  buttonhole,  and  then  proceeded  to  draw 
David  out.  Under  the  skillful,  schooled  ques- 
tioning, David  grew  communicative. 

"She  's  always  on  the  west  porch  after  sup- 
per." He  added  naively:  "That's  the  time  when 
Uncle  Barnabas  smokes  on  the  east  porch,  Jud 
goes  off  with  the  boys,  and  I  play  with  Janey 
in  the  lane." 

"Thank    you,     David,"     acknowledged     the 

91 


DAVID   DUNNE 

Judge  gratefully.  "You  are  quite  a  bureau  of 
information,  and,"  in  a  consciously  casual  tone, 
"will  you  take  a  note  to  your  aunt?  I  think  I 
will  ride  out  to  the  farm  to-night." 

David's  young  heart  fluttered,  and  he  went 
back  to  the  farm  invested  with  a  proud  feeling 
of  having  assisted  the  fates.  The  air  was  filled 
with  mystery  and  an  undercurrent  of  excite- 
ment that  day.  After  David  had  delivered  the 
auspicious  note,  a  private  conference  behind 
closed  doors  had  been  held  between  M'ri  and 
Barnabas  in  the  "company  parlor."  David's 
shrewd  young  eyes  noted  the  weakening  of  the 
lines  of  finality  about  M'ri's  mouth  when  she 
emerged  from  the  interview.  Throughout  the 
long  afternoon  she  performed  the  usual  tasks  in 
nervous  haste,  the  color  coming  and  going  in  her 
delicately  contoured  face. 

When  she  appeared  at  the  supper  table  she 
was  adorned  in  white,  brightened  by  touches  of 
blue  at  belt  and  collar.  David's  young  eyes  sur- 
veyed her  apprai  singly  and  approvingly,  and 
later  he  effected  a  thorough  effacing  of  the  fam- 
ily.   He  obtained  from  Barnabas  permission  for 

92 


DAVID   DUNNE 

Jud  to  go  to  town  with  the  Gardner  boys.  His 
next  diplomatic  move  was  to  persuade  Penny- 
royal to  go  with  himself  and  Janey  to  Uncle 
Larimy's  hermit  home.  When  she  wavered,  he 
commented  on  the  eclipse  of  Uncle  Larimy's 
windows  the  last  time  he  saw  them.  That 
turned  the  tide  of  Pennyroyal's  resistance. 
Equipped  with  soft  linen,  a  cake  of  strong  soap, 
and  a  bottle  of  ammonia,  she  strode  down  the 
lane,  accompanied  by  the  children. 

The  walk  proved  a  trying  ordeal  for  Penny- 
royal. She  started  out  at  her  accustomed  brisk 
gait,  but  David  loitered  and  sauntered,  Janey 
of  course  setting  her  pace  by  his.  Pennyroyal, 
feeling  it  incumbent  upon  herself  to  keep 
watch  of  her  young  companions,  retraced  her 
steps  so  often  that  she  covered  the  distance  sev- 
eral times. 

At  Uncle  Larimy's  she  found  such  a  fertile 
field  for  her  line  of  work  that  David  was  quite 
ready  to  return  when  she  pronounced  her  labors 
finished.  She  was  really  tired,  and  quite  will- 
ing to  walk  home  slowly  in  the  moonlight. 

It  was  very  quiet.  Here  and  there  a  bird, 
93 


DAVID   DUNNE 

startled  from  its  hiding  place,  sought  refuge  in 
the  higher  branches.  A  pensive  quail  piped  an 
answer  to  the  trilling  call  from  the  meadows.  A 
tree  toad  uttered  his  lonely,  guttural  exclama- 
tion. The  air,  freshening  with  a  coming  covey 
of  clouds,  swayed  the  tops  of  the  trees  with 
mournful  sound. 

David,  full  of  dreams,  let  his  fancy  have  full 
play,  and  he  made  a  little  story  of  his  own  about 
the  meeting  of  the  lovers.  He  pictured  the 
Judge  riding  down  the  dust-white  road  as  the 
sunset  shadows  grew  long.  He  knew  the  exact 
spot — the  last  bit  of  woodland — from  where 
Martin,  across  level-lying  fields,  could  obtain 
his  first  glimpse  of  the  old  farmhouse  and  porch. 
His  moving-picture  conceit  next  placed  M'ri, 
dressed  in  white,  with  touches  of  blue,  on  the 
west  porch.  He  had  decided  that  in  the 
Long  Ago  Days  she  had  been  wont  to  wear 
blue,  which  he  imagined  to  be  the  Judge's 
favorite  color.  Then  he  caused  the  unimpres- 
sionable Judge  to  tie  his  horse  to  the  hitching 
post  at  the  side  of  the  road  and  walk  be- 
tween the  hedges  of  sweet  peas  that  bordered 

94 


DAVID   DUNNE 

the  path.  Their  pink  and  white  sweetness  was 
the  trumpet  call  sounding  over  the  grave  of  the 
love  of  his  youth.  (David  had  read  such  a  pas- 
sage in  a  book  at  Miss  Rhody's  and  thought  it 
very  fine  and  applicable.)  His  active  fancy 
took  Martin  Thorne  around  the  house  to  the 
west  porch.  The  white  figure  arose,  and  in  the 
purple-misted  twilight  he  saw  the  touches  of 
blue,  and  his  heart  lighted. 

"Marie!" 

The  old  name,  the  name  he  had  given  her  in 
his  love-making  days,  came  to  his  lips.  (David 
could  n't  make  M'ri  fit  in  with  the  settings  of  his 
story,  so  he  re-christened  her.)  She  came  for- 
ward with  outstretched  hand  and  a  gentle  man- 
ner, but  at  the  look  in  his  eyes  as  he  uttered  the 
old  name,  with  the  caressing  accent  on  the  first 
syllable,  she  understood.  A  deep  sunrise  color 
flooded  her  face  and  neck. 

"Martin!"  she  whispered  as  she  came  to  him. 

David  threw  back  his  head  and  shut  his  eyes 
in  ecstatic  bliss.  He  was  rudely  roused  from  his 
romantic  weaving  by  the  sound  of  Barnabas' 
chuckle  as  they  came  to  the  east  porch. 

95 


DAVID   DUNNE 

"You  must  a  washed  every  one  of  Larimy's 
winders!" 

"Yes,"  replied  Janey,  "and  she  mopped  his 
floors,  washed  and  clean-papered  the  shelves, 
and  wanted  to  scrub  the  old  gray  horse." 

"Pennyroyal,"  exclaimed  Barnabas  gravely, 
"I  wonder  you  ain't  waterlogged!" 

"Pennyroyal  'd  rather  be  clean  than  be  Presi- 
dent," averred  David. 

"Where's  M'ri?"  demanded  Pennyroyal,  ig- 
noring these  thrusts. 

"On  the  west  porch,  entertaining  company," 
remarked  Barnabas. 

"Who?" 

Pennyroyal  never  used  a  superfluous  word. 
Joe  Forbes  said  she  talked  like  telegrams. 

Barnabas  removed  his  pipe  from  his  mouth, 
and  paused  to  give  his  words  greater  dramatic 
force. 

"Mart  Thorne!" 

The  effect  was  satisfactory. 

Pennyroyal  stood  as  if  petrified  for  a  mo- 
ment.   Than  she  expressed  her  feelings. 

"Hallelujahr 

96 


DAVID   DUNNE 

Her  tone  made  the  exclamation  as  impressive 
as  a  benediction. 

M'ri  visited  the  bedside  of  each  of  her 
charges  that  night.  Jud  and  Janey  were  in  the 
land  of  dreams,  but  David  was  awake,  expect- 
ing her  coming.  There  was  a  new  tenderness 
in  her  good-night  kiss. 

"Aunt  M'ri,"  asked  the  boy,  looking  up  with 
his  deep,  searching  eyes  and  a  suspicion  of  a 
smile  about  his  lips,  "did  you  and  Judge  Thorne 
talk  over  my  education?  He  said  that  he  was 
going  to  speak  to  you  about  it." 

Her  eyes  sparkled. 

"David,  the  Judge  is  coming  to  dinner  Sun- 
day.   We  will  talk  it  over  with  you  then." 

"Aunt  M'ri,"  a  little  note  of  wistfulness  chas- 
ing the  bantering  look  from  his  eyes,  "you  are  n't 
going  to  leave  us  now?" 

"Not  for  a  year,  David,"  she  said,  a  soft  flush 
coming  to  her  face. 

"He  's  waited  seven,"  thought  David,  "so  one 
more  won't  make  so  much  difference.  Anyway, 
we  need  a  year  to  get  used  to  it." 

After  all,  David  was  only  a  boy.    His  flights 

97 

(7) 


DAVID   DUNNE 

of  romantic  fancy  vanished  in  remembrance  of 
the  blissful  certainty  that  there  would  be  ice 
cream  for  dinner  on  Sunday  next  and  on  many 
Sundays  thereafter. 


98 


CHAPTER  IX 

rFl  HE  little  trickle  of  uneven  days  was  broken 
*  one  morning  by  a  message  which  was 
brought  by  the  "hired  man  from  Randall's." 

"We  've  got  visitors  from  the  city  tew  our 
house,"  he  announced.  "They  want  you  to  send 
Janey  over  tew  play  with  their  little  gal." 

Befitting  the  honor  of  the  occasion,  Janey  was 
attired  in  her  blue-sprigged  muslin  and  allowed 
to  wear  the  turquoises.  David  drove  her  to 
Maplewood,  the  pretentious  home  of  the  Ran- 
dalls, intending  to  call  for  her  later.  When  they 
came  to  the  entrance  of  the  grounds  at  the  end 
of  a  long  avenue  of  maples  a  very  tiny  girl,  im- 
maculate in  white,  with  hair  of  gold  and  eyes 
darkly  blue,  came  out  from  among  the  trees. 
She  regarded  David  with  deep,  grave  eyes  as  he 
stepped  from  the  wagon  to  open  the  gate. 

"You've  come  to  play  with  me,"  she  stated 
in  a  tone  of  assurance. 

"I  Ve  brought  Janey  to  play  with  you,"  he 

99 


DAVID   DUNNE 

rejoined,  indicating  his  little  companion.  "If 
you  '11  get  in  the  wagon,  I  '11  drive  you  up  to  the 
house." 

She  held  up  her  slender  little  arms  to  him,  and 
David  felt  as  if  he  were  lifting  a  doll. 

"My  name  in  Carey  Winthrop.  What  is 
yours?'  she  demanded  of  Janey  as  they  all  rode 
up  the  shaded,  graveled  road. 

"Janey  Brumble,"  replied  the  visitor,  gaining 
ease  from  the  ingenuousness  of  the  little  girl 
and  from  the  knowledge  that  she  was  older  than 
her  hostess. 

"And  he  's  your  brother?"  indicating  David. 

"He's  my  adopted  brother,"  said  Janey; 
"he 's  David  Dunne." 

"I  wish  I  had  a  'dopted  brother,"  sighed  the 
little  girl,  eying  David  wistfully. 

David  drove  up  to  the  side  entrance  of  the 
large,  white-columned,  porticoed  house,  on  the 
spacious  veranda  of  which  sat  a  fair-haired 
young  woman  with  luminous  eyes  and  smiling 
mouth.  The  smile  deepened  as  she  saw  the  cu- 
riously disfigured  horse  ambling  up  to  the  stone 

step. 

100 


DAVID   DUNNE 

"Whoa,  Old  Hundred!"  commanded  David, 
whereupon  the  smile  became  a  rippling  laugh. 
David  got  out,  lifted  the  little  girl  to  the  ground 
very  carefully,  and  gave  a  helping  hand  to 
the  nimble,  independent  Janey. 

"Mother,"  cried  Carey  delightedly,  "this  is 
Janey  and  her  'dopted  brother  David." 

David  touched  his  cap  gravely  in  acknowledg- 
ment of  the  introduction.  He  had  never  heard 
his  name  pronounced  as  this  little  girl  spoke 
it,  with  the  soft  "a."  It  sounded  very  sweet  to 
him. 

"I  '11  drive  back  for  you  before  sundown, 
Janey,"  said  David,  preparing  to  climb  into  the 
wagon. 

"No,"  objected  Carey,  regarding  him  with 
apprehension,  "I  want  you  to  stay  and  play  with 
me.    Tell  him  to  stay,  mother." 

There  was  a  regal  carriage  to  the  little  head 
and  an  imperious  note — the  note  of  an  only 
child — in  her  voice. 

"Maybe  David  has  other  things  to  do  than  to 
play  with  little  girls,"  said  her  mother,  "but, 
David,  if  you  can  stay,  I  wish  you  would." 

101 


DAVID   DUNNE 

"I  should  like  to  stay,"  replied  David  ear- 
nestly, "but  they  expect  me  back,  and  Old  Hun- 
dred is  needed  in  the  field." 

"Luke  can  drive  your  horse  back,  and  we  will 
see  that  you  and  Janey  ride  home." 

So  Carey,  with  a  hand  to  each  of  her  new 
playmates,  led  them  across  the  driveway  to  the 
rolling  stretch  of  shaded  lawn.  The  lady 
watched  David  as  he  submitted  to  be  driven  as 
a  horse  by  the  little  girls  and  then  constituted 
himself  driver  to  his  little  team  of  ponies  as  he 
called  them.  Later,  when  they  raced  to  the 
meadow,  she  saw  him  hold  Janey  back  that  Carey 
might  win.  Presently  the  lady  was  joined  by 
her  husband. 

"Where  is  Carey?"  he  asked. 

"She  is  having  great  sport  with  a  pretty  little 
girl  and  a  guardian  angel  of  a  boy.  Here  they 
come!" 

They  were  trooping  across  the  lawn,  the  little 
girls  adorned  with  blossom  wreaths  which  David 
had  woven  for  them. 

"May  we  go  down  to  the  woods — the  big 
woods?"  asked  Carey. 

102 


DAVID   DUNNE 

"It 's  too  far  for  you  to  walk,  dear,"  remon- 
strated her  mother. 

"David  says  he  '11  draw  me  in  my  little  cart." 

"Who  is  it  that  was  afraid  to  go  into  the  big 
woods,  and  thought  it  was  a  forest  filled  with 
wild  beasts  and  scary  things?"  demanded  Mr. 
Winthrop. 

The  earnest  eyes  fixed  on  his  were  not  at  all 
abashed. 

"With  him,  with  David,"  she  said  simply,  "I 
would  have  no  afraidments." 

"Afraidments?"  he  repeated  perplexedly.  "I 
am  not  sure  I  understand." 

"Don't  tease,  Arthur ;  it 's  a  very  good  word," 
interposed  Mrs.  Winthrop  quickly.  "It  seems 
to  have  a  different  meaning  from  fear." 

"Come  up  here,  David,"  bade  Mr.  Winthrop, 
"and  let  me  see  what  there  is  in  you  to  inspire 
one  with  no  'afraidments'." 

The  boy  came  up  on  the  steps,  and  did  not 
falter  under  the  keen  but  good-humored  gaze. 

"Do  you  like  to  play  with  little  girls,  David?" 

"I  like  to  play  with  these  little  girls,"  admitted 
David. 

103 


DAVID   DUNNE 

"And  what  do  you  like  to  do  besides  that?" 

"I  like  to  shoot." 

"Oh,  a  hunter?" 

"No ;  I  like  to  shoot  at  a  mark." 

"And  what  else?" 

"I  like  to  read,  and  fish,  and  swim,  and — " 

"Eat  ice  cream!"  finished  Janey  roguishly, 
showing  her  dimples. 

The  man  caught  her  up  in  his  arms. 

"You  are  a  darling,  and  I  wish  my  little  girl 
had  such  rosy  cheeks.  David,  can  you  show  me 
where  there  is  good  fishing?" 

"Uncle  Larimy  can  show  you  the  best  places. 
He  knows  where  the  bass  live,  and  how  to  coax 
them  to  bite." 

"And  will  you  take  me  to  this  wonderful  per- 
son to-morrow?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

Carey  now  came  out  of  the  hall  with  her  cart, 
and  David  drew  her  across  the  lawn,  Janey  danc- 
ing by  his  side.  Down  through  the  meadows 
wound  a  wheel-tracked  road  leading  to  a  patch 
of  dense  woods  which,  to  a  little  girl  with  a  big 
imagination,  could  easily  become  a  wild  forest 

104 


DAVID   DUNNE 

infested  with  all  sorts  of  nameless  terrors — ter- 
rors that  make  one  draw  the  bedclothes  snugly 
over  the  head  at  night.  She  gave  a  little  fright- 
ened cry  as  they  came  into  the  cool,  olive  depths. 

"I  am  afraid,  David.    Take  me!" 

He  lifted  her  to  his  shoulder,  and  her  soft 
cheek  nestled  against  his  face. 

"Now  you  are  not  afraid,"  he  said  persua- 
sively. 

"No;  but  I  would  be  if  you  put  me  down." 

They  went  farther  into  the  oak  depths,  until 
they  came  to  a  fallen  tree  where  they  rested. 
Janey,  investigating  the  forestry,  finally  discov- 
ered a  bush  with  slender  red  twigs. 

"Oh,"  she  cried,  "now  David  will  show  you 
what  beautiful  things  he  can  make  for  us." 

"I  have  no  pins,"  demurred  David. 

"I  have,"  triumphantly  producing  a  paper  of 
the  needful  from  her  pocket.  "I  always  carry 
them  now." 

David  broke  up  the  long  twigs  into  short 
pieces,  from  which  he  skillfully  fashioned  little 
chairs  and  tables,  discoursing  the  while  to  Carey 
on  the  beauty  and  safety  of  the  woods.    Finally 

105 


DAVID   DUNNE 

Carey  acquired  courage  to  hunt  for  wild  flowers, 
though  her  hand  remained  close  in  David's 
clasp. 

When  they  returned  to  the  house  Carey  gave  a 
glowing  account  of  the  expedition. 

"Sit  down  on  the  steps  and  rest,  children," 
proposed  Mrs.  Winthrop,  "while  Lucy  prepares 
a  little  picnic  dinner  for  you." 

"What  will  we  do  now,  David?"  appealed 
Carey,  when  they  were  seated  on  the  porch. 

"You  mustn't  do  anything  but  sit  still,"  ad- 
monished her  mother.  "You  've  done  more  now 
than  you  are  used  to  doing  in  one  day." 

"Davey  will  tell  us  a  story,"  suggested  Janey. 

"Yes,  please,  David,"  urged  Carey,  coming  to 
him  and  resting  her  eyes  on  his  inquiringly,  while 
her  little  hand  confidently  sought  his  knee. 
Instinctively  and  naturally  his  ringers  closed 
upon  it. 

Embarrassed  as  he  was  at  having  a  strange 
audience,  he  could  not  resist  the  child's  appeal. 

"She  '11  like  the  kind  that  you  don't,"  he  said 
musingly  to  Janey,  "the  kind  about  fairies  and 
princes." 

106 


DAVID   DUNNE 

"Yes,"  rejoined  Carey. 

So  he  fashioned  a  tale,  partly  from  recollec- 
tions of  Andersen  but  mostly  from  his  own 
fancy.  As  his  imagination  kindled,  he  forgot 
where  he  was.  Inspired  by  the  spellbound  in- 
terest of  the  dainty  little  girl  with  the  worshiping 
eyes,  he  achieved  his  masterpiece. 

"Upon  my  word,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Winthrop, 
"you  are  a  veritable  Scheherazade!  You  didn't 
make  up  that  story  yourself?" 

"Only  part  of  it,"  admitted  David  modestly. 

When  he  and  Janey  started  for  home  David 
politely  delivered  M'ri's  message  of  invitation 
for  Carey  to  come  to  the  farm  on  the  morrow  to 
play. 

"It  is  going  to  be  lovely  here,"  said  the  little 
girl  happily.  "And  we  are  going  to  come  every 
summer." 

Janey  kissed  her  impulsively.  "Good-by, 
Carey." 

"Good-by,  Janey.    Good-by,  David." 

"Good-by,"  he  returned  cheerily.  Looking 
back,  he  saw  her  lips  trembling.  His  gaze 
turned  in  perplexity  to  Mrs.  Winthrop,  whose 

107 


DAVID   DUNNE 

eyes  were  dancing.  "She  expects  you  to  bid  her 
good-by  the  way  Janey  did,"  she  explained. 

"Oh!"  said  David,  reddening,  as  two  baby  lips 
of  scarlet  were  lifted  naturally  and  expectantly 
to  his. 

As  they  drove  away,  the  light  feet  of  the 
horse  making  but  little  sound  on  the  smooth 
road,  Mrs.  Winthrop's  clear  treble  was  wafted 
after  them. 

"One  can  scarcely  believe  that  his  father  was 
a  convict  and  his  mother  a  washerwoman." 

A  lump  came  into  the  boy's  throat.  Janey 
was  very  quiet  on  the  way  home.  When  they 
were  alone  she  said  to  him,  with  troubled  eyes : 

"Davey,  is  Carey  going  to  be  your  sweet- 
heart?" 

His  laugh  was  reassuring. 

"Why,  Janey,  I  am  just. twice  her  age." 

"She  is  like  a  little  doll,  isn't  she,  David?" 

"No;  like  a  little  princess." 

The  next  morning  Little  Teacher  came  to 
show  them  her  present  from  Joe. 

"I  am  sure  he  chose  a  camera  so  I  could  take 
your  pictures  to  send  to  him,"  she  declared. 

108 


DAVID   DUNNE 

"Miss  Rhody  wants  her  picture  taken  in  the 
black  silk  Joe  gave  her.  If  you  will  take  it,  she 
won't  have  to  spend  the  money  he  sent  her," 
said  the  thoughtful  David. 

Little  Teacher  was  very  enthusiastic  over  this 
proposition,  and  offered  to  accompany  him  at 
once  to  secure  the  picture.  Miss  Rhody  was 
greatly  excited  over  the  event.  Ever  since  the 
dress  had  been  finished  she  had  been  a  devotee 
at  the  shrine  of  two  hooks  in  her  closet  from 
which  was  suspended  the  long-coveted  garment, 
waiting  for  an  occasion  that  would  warrant  its 
debut.  She  nervously  dressed  for  the  "like- 
ness," for  which  she  assumed  her  primmest  pose. 
A  week  later  David  sent  Joe  a  picture  of  Miss 
Rhody  standing  stiff  and  straight  on  her  back 
porch  and  arrayed,  with  all  the  glory  of  the 
lilies  of  the  field,  in  her  new  silk. 


109 


CHAPTER  X 

WHEN  the  hot,  close-cropped  fields  took 
on  their  first  suggestion  of  autumn  and  a 
fuller  note  was  heard  in  the  requiem  of  the  song- 
birds, when  the  twilights  were  of  purple  and  the 
morning  skies  delicately  mackereled  in  gray, 
David  entered  the  little,  red,  country  school- 
house.  M'ri's  tutelage  and  his  sedulous  applica- 
tion to  Jud's  schoolbooks  saved  him  from  the 
ignominy  of  being  classified  with  the  younger 
children. 

When  he  sat  down  to  the  ink-stained,  pen- 
scratched  desk  that  was  to  be  his  own,  when  he 
made  compact  piles  of  his  new  books  and  placed 
in  the  little  groove  in  front  of  the  inkwell  his  pen, 
pencils,  and  ruler,  he  turned  to  Little  Teacher 
such  a  glowing  face  of  ecstasy  that  she  was  quite 
inspired,  and  her  sympathies  and  energies  were 
at  once  enlisted  in  the  cause  of  David's  educa- 
tion. 

It  was  the  beginning  of  a  new  world  for  him. 
no 


DAVID   DUNNE 

He  studied  with  a  concentration  that  made  him 
oblivious  to  all  that  occurred  about  him,  and  he 
had  to  be  reminded  of  calls  to  recitations  by  an 
individual  summons.  He  fairly  overwhelmed 
Little  Teacher  by  his  voracity  for  learning  and 
a  perseverance  that  vanquished  all  obstacles. 
He  soon  outstripped  his  class,  and  finally  his 
young  instructress  was  forced  to  bring  forth  her 
own  textbooks  to  satisfy  his  avidity.  He  de- 
voured them  all  speedily,  and  she  then  applied  to 
the  Judge  for  fuel  from  his  library  to  feed  her 
young  furnace. 

"He  takes  to  learning  as  naturally  as  bees  to 
blossoms,"  she  reported. 

"He  must  ease  off,"  warned  Barnabas. 
"Young  hickory  needs  plenty  of  room  for  full 
growth." 

"No,"  disagreed  the  Judge,  "young  hickory  is 
as  strong  as  wrought  iron.  He  's  going  to  have 
a  clear,  keen  mind  to  argue  law  cases." 

"I  think  not,"  said  M'ri.  "You  forget  another 
quality  of  young  hickory.  No  other  wood  burns 
with  such  brilliancy.  David  is  going  to  be  an 
author." 

111 


DAVID   DUNNE 

"I  am  afraid,"  wrote  Joe,  "that  Dave  won't  be 
a  first-class  ranchman.  He  must  be  plum  locoed 
with  dreams." 

This  prognostication  reached  David's  ears. 

"Without  dreams,"  he  argued  to  Barnabas, 
"one  would  be  like  the  pigs." 

"Wal,  now,  Dave,  mebby  pigs  dream.  They 
sartain  sleep  a  hull  lot." 

David  laughed  appreciatively. 

"Dave,"  pursued  Barnabas,  "they  're  all  fig- 
gerin'  on  your  f  utur,  and  they  're  a-figgerin' 
wrong.  Joe  thinks  you  '11  take  to  ranchin'.  You 
may — fer  a  spell.  M'ri  thinks  you  may  write 
books.  You  may  do  even  that — fer  a  spell.  The 
Jedge  counts  on  yer  takin'  to  the  law  like  a  duck 
does  to  water.  You  may,  but  law  larnin,'  cow 
punchin',  and  story  writin'  '11  jest  be  steppin' 
stuns  to  what  I  know  you  air  goin'  ter  be,  and 
what  I  know  is  in  you  ter  be." 

"What  in  the  world  is  that,  Uncle  Barnabas?" 
asked  David  in  surprise.    "A  farmer?" 

"Farmer,  nuthin'!"  scoffed  Barnabas.  "Yer 
hain't  much  on  farmin',  Dave,  though  I  will 
say  yer  furrers  is  allers  straight,  like  everythin' 

112 


DAVID   DUNNE 

else  you  do.  Yer  straight  yerself.  No!  young 
hickory  can  bend  without  breakin',  and  thar  's 
jest  one  thing  I  want  fer  you  to  be." 

"What?"  persisted  the  boy. 

Barnabas  whispered  something. 

The  blood  of  the  young  country  boy  went  like 
wine  through  his  veins;  his  heart  leaped  with  a 
big  and  mighty  purpose. 

"Now,  remember,  Dave,"  cautioned  Barna- 
bas, "what  all  work  and  no  play  done  to  Jack. 
You  git  yer  lessons  perfect,  and  recite  them, 
and  read  a  leetle  of  an  evenin';  the  rest  of  the 
time  I  want  yer  to  get  out  and  cerkilate." 

November  with  its  call  to  quiet  woods  came 
on,  and  David  was  eager  to  "cerkilate."  He 
became  animated  with  the  spirit  of  sport.  Red- 
letter  Saturdays  were  spent  with  Uncle  Larimy, 
and  the  far-away  echo  of  the  hunter's  bullet  and 
the  scudding  through  the  woods  of  startled  game 
became  new,  sweet  music  to  his  ears.  Rifle  in 
hand,  with  dog  shuffling  at  his  heels  or  plunging 
ahead  in  search  of  game,  the  world  was  his.  Life 
was  very  full  and  happy,  save  for  the  one  in- 
evitable sprig  of  bitter — Jud!    The  big  bully  of 

113 

(8) 


DAVID   DUNNE 

a  boy  had  learned  that  David  was  his  equal  phys- 
ically and  his  superior  mentally,  but  the  fear  of 
David  and  of  David's  good  standing  kept  him 
from  venturing  out  in  the  open;  so  from  cover 
he  sought  by  all  the  arts  known  to  craftiness  to 
harass  the  younger  boy,  whose  patience  this  test 
tried  most  sorely. 

One  day  when  Little  Teacher  had  given  him 
a  verbose  definition  of  the  word  "pestiferous," 
David  looked  at  her  comprehendingly.  "Like 
Jud,"  he  murmured. 

Many  a  time  his  young  arms  ached  to  give  Jud 
another  thrashing,  but  his  mother's  parting  in- 
junction restrained  him. 

"If  only,"  he  sighed,  "Jud  belonged  to  some 
one  else!" 

He  vainly  sought  to  find  the  hair  line  that 
divided  his  sense  of  gratitude  and  his  protection 
of  self-respect. 

Winter  followed,  and  the  farm  work  droned. 
It  was  a  comfortable,  cozy  time,  with  breakfast 
served  in  the  kitchen  on  a  table  spread  with  a 
gay,  red  cloth.  Pennyroyal  baked  griddle-sized 
cakes,  delivering  them  one  at  a  time  direct  from 

114 


DAVID    DUNNE 

the  stove  to  the  consumer.  The  early  hour  of 
lamplight  made  long  evenings,  which  were  be- 
guiled by  lesson  books  and  story-books,  by  an 
occasional  skating  carnival  on  the  river,  a  coast- 
ing party  at  Long  Hill,  or  a  "surprise"  on  some 
hospitable  neighbor. 

One  morning  he  came  into  school  with  face 
and  eyes  aglow  with  something  more  than  the 
mere  delight  of  living.  It  meant  mischief,  pure 
and  simple,  but  Little  Teacher  was  not  always 
discerning.  She  gave  him  a  welcoming  smile  of 
sheer  sympathy  with  his  mood.  She  didn't 
smile,  later,  when  the  schoolroom  was  distracted 
by  the  sound  of  raucous  laughter,  feminine 
screams,  and  a  fluttering  of  skirts  as  the  girls 
scrambled  to  standing  posture  in  their  chairs. 
Astonished,  she  looked  for  the  cause.  The  cause 
came  her  way,  and  the  pupils  had  a  fresh  ex- 
ample of  the  miracles  wrought  by  a  mouse,  for 
Little  Teacher,  usually  the  personification  of 
dignity  and  repose,  screamed  lustily  and  scudded 
chairward  with  as  much  rapidity  as  that  dis- 
played by  the  scurrying  mouse  as  it  chased  for 
the  corner  and  disappeared  through  a  knothole 

115 


DAVID   DUNNE 

As  soon  as  the  noiseful  glee  had  subsided, 
Little  Teacher  sought  to  recover  her  prided  self- 
possession.  In  a  voice  resonant  with  sternness, 
she  commanded  silence,  gazing  wrathfully  by 
chance  at  little  Tim  Wiggins. 

"  'T  was  David  done  it,"  he  said  in  deprecat- 
ing self-defense,  imagining  himself  accused. 

"David  Dunne,"  demanded  Little  Teacher, 
"did  you  bring  that  mouse  to  school?" 

"He  brung  it  and  let  it  out  on  purpose,"  in- 
formed Tim  eagerly. 

Little  Teacher  never  encouraged  talebearing, 
but  she  was  so  discomfited  by  the  exposure  of 
the  ruling  weakness  peculiar  to  her  sex  that  she 
decided  to  discipline  her  favorite  pupil  upon  his 
acknowledgment  of  guilt. 

"You  may  bring  your  books  and  sit  on  the 
platform,"  she  ordered  indignantly. 

David  did  not  in  the  least  mind  his  assignment 
to  so  prominent  a  position,  but  he  did  mind  Little 
Teacher's  attitude  toward  him  throughout  the 
day.  He  sought  to  propitiate  her  by  coming  to 
her  assistance  in  many  little  tasks,  but  she  persist- 
ently ignored  his  overtures.    He  then  ventured 

116 


DAVID   DUNNE 

to  seek  enlightenment  regarding  his  studies,  but 
she  coldly  informed  him  he  could  remain  after 
school  to  ask  his  questions. 

David  began  to  feel  troubled,  and  looked  out 
of  the  window  for  an  inspiration.  He  found 
one  in  the  form  of  big,  brawny,  Jim  Block — 
"Teacher's  Jim,"  as  the  school  children  all  called 
him. 

"There  goes  Teacher's  Jim,"  sang  David, 
soto  voce. 

The  shot  told.  For  the  second  time  that  day 
Little  Teacher  showed  outward  and  visible 
signs  of  an  inward  disturbance.  With  a  blush 
she  turned  quickly  to  the  window  and  watched 
with  expressive  eyes  the  stalwart  figure  striding 
over  the  rough- frozen  road. 

In  an  instant,  however,  she  had  recalled  her- 
self to  earth,  and  David's  dancing  eyes  renewed 
her  hostility  toward  him.  Toward  the  end  of 
the  day  she  began  to  feel  somewhat  appeased  by 
his  docility  and  evident  repentance.  Her  man- 
ner had  perceptibly  changed  by  the  time  the 
closing  exercise  began.  This  was  the  writing  of 
words  on  the  blackboard  for  the  pupils  to  use 

117 


DAVID    DUNNE 

in  sentences.  She  pointed  to  the  first  word,  "in- 
come." 

"Who  can  make  a  sentence  and  use  that  word 
correctly?"  she  asked. 

"Do  call  on  Tim,"  whispered  David.  "He  so 
loves  to  be  the  first  to  tell  anything." 

She  smiled  her  appreciation  of  Tim's  prom- 
inent characteristic,  and  looked  at  the  young- 
ster, who  was  wringing  his  hand  in  an  agony  of 
eagerness.  She  gave  him  the  floor,  and  he 
jumped  to  his  feet  in  triumph,  yelling: 

"In  come  a  mouse!" 

This  was  too  much  for  David's  composure, 
and  he  gave  way  to  an  infectious  fit  of  laughter, 
in  which  the  pupils  joined. 

Little  Teacher  found  the  allusion  personal 
and  uncomfortable.  She  at  once  assumed  her 
former  distant  mien,  demanding  David's  pres- 
ence after  school  closed. 

"You  have  no  gratitude,  David,"  she  stated 
emphatically. 

The  boy  winced,  and  his  eyes  darkened  with 
concern,  as  he  remembered  his  mother's  parting 
injunction. 

118 


DAVID   DUNNE 

Little  Teacher  softened  slightly. 

"You  are  sorry,  are  n't  you,  David?"  she  asked 
gently. 

He  looked  at  her  meditatively. 

"No,  Teacher,"  he  answered  quietly. 

She  flushed  angrily. 

"David  Dunne,  you  may  go  home,  and  you 
need  n't  come  back  to  school  again  until  you  tell 
me  you  are  sorry." 

David  took  his  books  and  walked  serenely 
from  the  room.  He  went  home  by  the  way  of 
Jim  Block's  farm. 

"Hullo,  Dave!"  called  Big  Jim,  who  was  in 
the  barnyard. 

"Hello,  Jim!  I  came  to  tell  you  some  good 
news.  You  said  if  you  were  only  sure  there  was 
something  Teacher  was  afraid  of,  you  would  n't 
feel  so  scared  of  her." 

"Well,"  prompted  Jim  eagerly. 

"I  thought  I  'd  find  out  for  you,  so  I  took  a 
mouse  to  school  and  let  it  loose." 

"Gee!" 

David  then  related  the  occurrences  of  the 
morning,    not    omitting    the    look    in    Little 

119 


DAVID   DUNNE 

Teacher's  eyes  when  she  beheld  Jim  from  the 
window. 

"I  '11  hook  up  this  very  night  and  go  to  see 
her,"  confided  Jim. 

"Be  sure  you  do,  Jim.  If  you  find  your  cour- 
age slipping,  just  remember  that  you  owe  it  to 
me,  because  she  won't  let  me  come  back  to  school 
unless  she  knows  why  I  was  n't  sorry." 

"I  give  you  my  word,  Dave,"  said  Jim  ear- 
nestly. 

The  next  morning  Little  Teacher  stopped  at 
the  Brumble  farm. 

"I  came  this  way  to  walk  to  school  with  you 
and  Janey,"  she  said  sweetly  and  significantly 
to  David. 

When  they  reached  the  road,  and  Janey  had 
gone  back  to  get  her  sled,  Little  Teacher  looked 
up  and  caught  the  amused  twinkle  in  David's 
eye.  A  wave  of  conscious  red  overspread  her 
cheeks. 

"Must  I  say  I  am  sorry  now?"  he  asked. 

"David  Dunne,  there  are  things  you  under- 
stand which  you  never  learned  from  books." 


120 


CHAPTER  XI 

LATE  spring  brought  preparations  for 
M'ri's  wedding.  Rhody  Crabbe's  needle 
and  fingers  flew  in  rapturous  speed,  and  there 
was  likewise  engaged  a  seamstress  from  Laffer- 
ton.  Rhody  had  begged  for  the  making  of  the 
wedding  gown,  and  when  it  was  finished  David 
went  to  fetch  it  home. 

"It 's  almost  done,  David,  and  you  tell  M'ri 
the  last  stitch  was  a  loveknot.  It 's  most  a  year 
sence  you  wuz  here  afore,  a-waitin'  fer  her 
blue  waist  tew  be  finished.  Remember,  don't 
you,  David?" 

He  remembered,  and  as  she  stitched  he  sat 
silently  reviewing  that  year,  the  comforts  re- 
ceived, the  pleasures  pursued,  and,  best  of  all, 
the  many  things  he  had  learned,  but  the  recollec- 
tion that  a  year  ago  his  mother  had  been  living 
brought  a  rush  of  sad  memories  and  blotted  out 
happier  thoughts. 

"I  wish  yer  ma  could  hev  seen  Mart  and  M'ri 
121 


DAVID   DUNNE 

merried.  She  was  orful  disapp'inted  when  they 
broke  off." 

There  was  no  reply.  Rhody's  sharp  little 
eyes,  in  upward  glance,  spied  the  trickling  tear; 
she  looked  quickly  away  and  stitched  in  furious 
haste. 

"But,  my!"  she  continued,  as  if  there  had  been 
no  pause,  "how  glad  she  would  be  to  know  't  was 
you  as  fetched  it  around." 

David  looked  up,  diverted  and  inquiring. 

"Yes;  I  learnt  it  from  M'ri.  She  told  me 
about  the  flowers  you  give  him.  I  thought  it 
was  jest  sweet  in  you,  David.  You  done  good 
work  thar." 

"Miss  Rhody,"  said  David  earnestly,  "maybe 
some  day  I  can  get  you  a  sweetheart." 

"  'T  ain't  no  use,  David,"  she  sighed.  "No 
one  wants  a  plain  critter  like  me." 

"Lots  of  them  don't  marry  for  looks,"  argued 
David  sagely.  "Besides,  you  look  fine  in  your 
black  silk,  and  your  hair  crimped.  Joe  thinks 
your  picture  is  great.  He  's  got  it  on  a  shelf 
over  his  fireplace  at  the  ranch." 

"Most  likely  some  cowboy  '11  see  it  and  lose 

122 


DAVID   DUNNE 

his  heart,"  laughed  Miss  Rhody,  "but  thar,  the 
weddin'  dress  is  all  done.  You  go  home  and 
quit  thinkin'  about  gittin'  me  a  man.  I  ain't 
ha'nted  by  the  thought  of  endin'  single." 

Great  preparations  for  the  wedding  pro- 
gressed at  the  Brumble  farm.  For  a  week 
Pennyroyal  whipped  up  eggs  and  sugar,  and 
David  ransacked  the  woods  for  evergreens  and 
berries  with  which  to  decorate  the  big  barn, 
where  the  dance  after  the  wedding  was  to  take 
place. 

The  old  farmhouse  was  filled  to  overflowing 
on  the  night  of  the  wedding.  After  the  cere- 
mony, Miss  Rhody,  resplendent  in  the  black 
silk  and  waving  hair  loosed  from  the  crimping 
pins  that  had  confined  it  for  two  days  and 
nights,  came  up  to  David. 

"My,  David,  I  've  got  the  funniest  all  over 
feelin'  from  seein'  Mart  and  M'ri  merried!  I 
was  orful  afeerd  I  'd  cry." 

"Sit  down,  Miss  Rhody,"  said  David,  gal- 
lantly bringing  her  a  chair. 

"Didn't  M'ri  look  perfeckly  beyewtiful?" 
she  continued,  after  accomplishing  the  pirouette 

123 


DAVID    DUNNE 

that  prevented  creases.  "And  Mart,  he  looked 
that  proud,  and  solemn  too.  It  made  me  think 
of  that  gal  when  she  spoke  'Curfew  shall  not  ring 
tewnight'  at  the  schoolhouse.  Every  one  looks 
fine.  I  hain't  seen  Barnabas  so  fussed  up  sence 
Libby  Sukes'  funyral.  It  makes  him  look  real 
spry.  And  whoever  got  Larimer  Sasser  to  perk 
up  and  put  on  a  starched  shirt !" 

"I  think,"  confided  David,  "that  Penny  got 
after  him.  She  had  him  in  a  corner  when  he 
came,  and  she  tied  his  necktie  so  tight  I  was 
afraid  she  would  choke  him." 

"Look  at  old  Miss  Pankey,  David.  She,  as 
rich  as  they  make  'em,  and  a-wearin'  that  old 
silk!  It  looks  as  ef  it  hed  bin  hung  up  fer  you 
and  Jud  to  shoot  at.  Ain't  she  a-glarin'  and 
a-sniffin'  at  me,  though?  Say,  David,  you  write 
Joe  that  if  M'ri  did  look  the  purtiest  of  any  one 
that  my  dress  cost  more  'n  any  one's  here,  and 
showed  it,  too.  I  hope  thar  '11  be  a  lot  of  oc- 
casions to  wear  it  to  this  summer.  M'ri  is  a-goin' 
to  give  a  reception  when  she  gits  back  from  her 
tower,  and  that  '11  be  one  thing  to  wear  it  at. 
Ain't  Jud  got  a  mean  look?    He  's  as  crooked 

124 


DAVID   DUNNE 

as  a  dog's  hind  leg.  But,  say,  David,  that 's  a 
fine  suit  you  're  a-wearin'.  You  look  handsome. 
Thar  ain't  a  stingy  hair  on  Barnabas'  head. 
He  's  doin'  jest  as  good  by  you  as  he  is  by  Jud. 
Don't  little  Janey  look  like  an  angel  in  white, 
and  them  lovely  beads  Joe  give  her?  I  can't 
think  of  nothin'  else  but  that  little  Eva  you  read 
me  about.  I  shouldn't  wonder  a  bit,  David,  if 
I  come  to  yer  and  Janey's  weddin'  yet!"  she  said, 
as  Janey  came  dancing  up  to  them. 

A  slow  flush  mounted  to  his  forehead,  but 
Janey  laughed  merrily. 

"I  Ve  promised  Joe  I  'd  wait  for  him,"  she 
said  roguishly. 

"She  's  only  foolin'  and  so  wuz  he,"  quickly 
spoke  Miss  Rhody,  seeing  the  hurt  look  in 
David's  eyes.  "Barnabas,"  she  asked,  stopping 
him  as  he  passed,  "you  air  a-goin'  to  miss  M'ri 
turrible.  You  could  never  manige  if  it  wa'n't 
fer  Penny.  Won't  she  hev  the  time  of  her  life 
cleanin'  up  after  this  weddin'?  She'll  enjoy  it 
more  'n  she  did  gettin'  ready  fer  it." 

"I  hope  Penny  won't  go  to  gittin'  merried — 
not  till  Janey's  growed  up." 

125 


DAVID    DUNNE 

"David  's  a  great  help  to  you,  too,  Barnabas." 

"Dave!  I  don't  know  how  I  ever  got  along 
afore  he  came.  He  's  so  willin'  and  so  honest. 
He  's  as  good  as  gold.  Only  fault  he  's  got  is  a 
quick  temper.  He  's  doin'  purty  fair  with  it, 
though.    If  only  Jud — " 

He  stopped,  with  a  sigh,  and  Rhody  hastened 
to  change  the  subject. 

"You  're  a-lookin'  spry  to-night,  Barnabas. 
I  hain't  seen  you  look  so  spruce  in  a  long  time." 

"You  look  mighty  tasty  yerself,  Rhody." 

This  interchange  of  compliments  was  inter- 
rupted by  the  announcement  of  supper. 

"I  never  set  down  to  sech  a  repast,"  thought 
Miss  Rhody.  "I  'm  glad  I  did  n't  feed  much  to- 
day. I  don't  know  whether  to  take  chickin 
twice,  or  to  try  all  them  meltin',  flaky  lookin' 
pies.    And  jest  see  them  layer  cakes!" 

After  supper  adjournment  was  made  to  the 
barn,  where  the  fiddles  were  already  swinging 
madly.  Every  one  caught  the  spirit,  and  even 
Miss  Rhody  finally  succumbed  to  Barnabas'  in- 
sistence. Pennyroyal  captured  Uncle  Larimy, 
and  when  Janey  whirled  away  in  the  arms  of  a 

126 


DAVID   DUNNE 

schoolmate,  David,  who  had  never  learned  to 
dance,  stood  isolated.  He  felt  lonely  and  de- 
pressed, and  recalled  the  expression  in  which  Joe 
Forbes  had  explained  life  after  he  had  acquired  a 
stepmother.  "I  was  always  on  the  edge  of  the 
fireside,"  he  had  said. 

"Dave,"  expostulated  Uncle  Barnabas,  as 
soon  as  he  could  get  his  breath  after  the  last 
dance,  "you  'd  better  eddicate  yer  heels  as  well 
as  yer  head.  It 's  unnateral  f  er  a  colt  and  a  boy 
not  to  kick  up  their  heels.  You  don't  never  want 
to  be  a  looker-on  at  nuthin'  excep'  from  ch'ice. 
You  'd  orter  be  a  stand-in  on  everything  that 's 
a-goin'  instead  of  a  stand-by.  The  stand-bys 
never  git  nowhar." 


127 


PART  TWO 

CHAPTER  I 

DAVID  DUNNE  at  eighteen  was  grad- 
uated from  the  high  school  in  Lafferton 
after  five  colorless  years  in  which  study  and  farm 
work  alternated.  Throughout  this  period  he 
had  continued  to  incur  the  rancor  of  Jud,  whose 
youthful  scrapes  had  gradually  developed  into 
brawls  and  carousals.  The  Judge  periodically 
extricated  him  from  serious  entanglements,  and 
Barnabas  continued  optimistic  in  his  expecta- 
tions of  a  time  when  Jud  should  "settle."  On  one 
occasion  Jud  sneeringly  accused  David  of 
"working  the  old  man  for  a  share  in  the  farm," 
and  taunted  him  with  the  fact  that  he  was  big 
enough  and  strong  enough  to  hustle  for  himself 
without  living  on  charity.  David  started  on  a 
tramp  through  the  woods  to  face  the  old  issue 
and  decide  his  fate.  He  had  then  one  more  year 
before  he  could  finish  school  and  carry  out  a 
long-cherished  dream  of  college. 

128 


DAVID   DUNNE 

He  was  at  a  loss  to  know  just  where  to  turn 
at  the  present  time  for  a  home  where  he  could 
work  for  his  board  and  attend  school.  The 
Judge  and  M'ri  had  gone  abroad;  Joe  was  on 
his  ranch ;  the  farmers  needed  no  additional  help. 

He  had  been  walking  swiftly  in  unison  with 
his  thoughts,  and  when  he  came  out  of  the  woods 
into  the  open  he  was  only  a  mile  downstream 
from  town.  Upon  the  river  bank  stood  Uncle 
Larimy,  skillfully  swirling  his  line. 

" Wanter  try  yer  luck,  Dave?" 

"I  have  no  luck  just  now,  Uncle  Larimy,"  re- 
plied the  boy  sadly. 

Uncle  Larimy  shot  him  a  quick,  sidelong 
glance. 

"Then  move  on,  Dave,  and  chase  arter  it. 
Thar  's  allers  luck  somewhar.  Jest  like  fishin'. 
You  can't  set  in  one  spot  and  wait  for  luck  tew 
come  to  you  like  old  Zeke  Foss  does.  You  must 
keep  a-castin\" 

"I  don't  know  where  to  cast,  Uncle  Larimy." 

Uncle  Larimy  pondered.  He  knew  that  Jud 
was  home,  and  he  divined  David's  trend  of 
thought. 

129 

(9) 


DAVID   DUNNE 

"You  can't  stick  to  a  plank  allers,  Dave,  ef 
you  wanter  amount  tew  anything.  Strike  out 
bold,  and  swim  without  any  life  presarvers. 
You  might  jest  as  well  be  a  sleepy  old  cat  in  a 
corner  as  to  go  smoothsailin'  through  life." 

"I  feel  that  I  have  got  to  strike  out,  and  at 
once,  Uncle  Larimy,  but  I  don't  just  know  where 
to  strike." 

"Wal,  Dave,  it 's  what  we  've  all  got  to  find 
out  f  er  ourselves.  It 's  a  leap  in  the  dark  like, 
and  ef  you  don't  land  nowhere,  take  another 
leap,  and  keep  a-goin'  somewhar." 

David  wended  his  way  homeward,  pondering 
over  Uncle  Larimy's  philosophy.  When  he 
went  with  Barnabas  to  do  the  milking  that  night 
he  broached  the  subject  of  leaving  the  farm. 

"I  know  how  Jud  feels  about  my  being  here, 
Uncle  Barnabas." 

"What  did  he  say  to  you?"  asked  the  old  man 
anxiously. 

"Nothing.  I  overheard  a  part  of  your  con- 
versation. He  is  right.  And  if  I  stay  here,  he 
will  run  away  to  sea.  He  told  the  fellows  in 
Lafferton  he  would." 

130 


DAVID   DUNNE 

"You  are  going  to  stay,  Dave." 

"You  won't  like  to  think  you  drove  your  son 
away.  If  he  gets  into  trouble,  both  you  and  I 
will  feel  we  are  to  blame." 

"Dave,  I  see  why  the  Jedge  hez  got  it  all  cut 
out  f  er  you  to  be  a  lawyer.  You  've  got  the 
argyin'  habit  strong.  But  you  can't  argue  me 
into  what  I  see  is  wrong.  This  is  the  place  f  er 
you  to  be,  and  Jud  '11  hev  to  come  outen  his 
spell." 

"Then  let  me  go  away  until  he  does.  You 
must  give  him  every  chance." 

"Where '11  you  go?"  asked  Barnabas  cu- 
riously. 

"I  don't  know,  yet,"  said  the  boy,  "but  I  '11 
think  out  a  plan  to-night." 

It  was  Jud,  after  all,  who  cut  the  Gordian 
knot,  and  made  one  of  his  welcome  disappear- 
ances, which  lasted  until  David  was  ready  to 
start  in  college.  His  savings,  that  he  had  ac- 
cumulated by  field  work  in  the  summers  and  a 
very  successful  poultry  business  for  six  years, 
netted  him  four  hundred  dollars. 

"One  hundred  dollars  for  each  year/'  he 
131 


DAVID   DUNNE 

thought  exultantly.  "That  will  be  ample  with 
the  work  I  shall  find  to  do." 

Then  he  made  known  to  his  friends  his  long- 
cherished  scheme  of  working  his  way  through 
college.    The  Judge  laughed. 

"Your  four  hundred  dollars,  David,  will 
barely  get  you  through  the  first  year.  After 
that,  I  shall  gladly  pay  your  expenses,  for  as 
soon  as  you  are  admitted  to  the  bar  you  are  to 
come  into  my  office,  of  course." 

David  demurred. 

"I  shall  work  my  way  through  college,"  he 
said  firmly. 

He  next  told  Barnabas  of  his  intention  and 
the  Judge's  offer  which  he  had  declined. 

"I  'm  glad  you  refused,  Dave.  You  11  only  be 
in  his  office  till  you  're  ripe  f  er  what  I  kin  make 
you.  I  Ve  larnt  that  the  law  is  a  good  founda- 
tion as  a  sure  steppin'  stone  tew  it,  so  you  kin  hev 
a  taste  of  it.  But  the  Jedge  ain't  a-goin'  to  pay 
yer  expenses." 

"I  don't  mean  that  he  shall,"  replied  David. 
"I  want  to  pay  my  own  way." 

"I  'm  a-goin'  to  send  you  tew  college  and  send 
132 


DAVID   DUNNE 

you  right.  No  starvin'  and  garret  plan  fer  you. 
I  've  let  Joe  and  the  Jedge  do  fer  you  as  much 
as  they  're  a-goin'  to,  but  you  're  mine  from  now 
on.  It 's  what  I  'd  do  fer  my  own  son  if  he  cared 
fer  books,  and  you  're  as  near  to  me  ez  ef  you 
were  my  son." 

"It 's  too  much,  Uncle  Barnabas." 

"And,  David,"  he  continued,  unheeding  the 
interruption,  "I  hope  you  '11  really  be  my  son 
some  day." 

A  look  of  such  exquisite  happiness  came  into 
the  young  eyes  that  Barnabas  put  out  his  hand 
silently.  In  the  firm  hand-clasp  they  both 
understood. 

"I  am  not  going  to  let  you  help  me  through 
college,  though,  Uncle  Barnabas.  It  has  al- 
ways been  my  dream  to  earn  my  own  education. 
When  you  pay  for  anything  yourself,  it  seems 
so  much  more  your  own  than  when  it 's  a  gift." 

"Let  him,  Barnabas,"  again  counseled  Uncle 
Larimy.  "Folks  must  feed  diff'rent.  Thar  's 
the  sweet-fed  which  must  allers  hev  sugar,  but 
salt 's  the  savor  for  Dave.  He  's  the  kind  that 
flourishes  best  in  the  shade." 

133 


DAVID   DUNNE 

Janey  wrote  to  Joe  of  David's  plan,  and  there 
promptly  came  a  check  for  one  thousand  dol- 
lars, which  David  as  promptly  returned. 


134 


CHAPTER  II 

A  FEW  days  before  the  time  set  for  his  de- 
parture David  set  out  on  a  round  of  fare- 
well visits  to  the  country  folk.  It  was  one  of 
those  cold,  cheerless  days  that  intervene  between 
the  first  haze  of  autumn  and  the  golden  glow  of 
October.  He  had  never  before  realized  how 
lonely  the  shiver  of  wind  through  the  poplars 
could  sound.  Two  innovations  had  been  made 
that  day  in  the  country.  The  rural  delivery  car- 
rier, in  his  little  house  on  wheels,  had  made  his 
first  delivery,  and  a  track  for  the  new  electric- 
car  line  was  laid  through  the  sheep  meadow. 
This  inroad  of  progress  upon  the  sanctity  of 
their  seclusion  seemed  sacrilegious  to  David, 
who  longed  to  have  lived  in  the  olden  time  of 
log  houses,  with  their  picturesque  open  fires  and 
candle  lights.  Following  some  vague  inward 
call,  he  went  out  of  his  way  to  ride  past  the  tiny 
house  he  had  once  called  home,  and  which  in  all 
his  ramblings  he  had  steadfastly  avoided.     He 

135 


DAVID   DUNNE 

had  heard  that  the  place  had  passed  into  the 
hands  of  a  widow  with  an  only  son,  and  that 
they  had  purchased  surrounding  land  for  culti- 
vation. He  had  been  glad  to  hear  this,  and  had 
liked  to  fancy  the  son  caring  for  his  mother  as 
he  himself  would  have  cared  for  his  mother  had 
she  lived. 

As  he  neared  the  little  nutshell  of  a  house  his 
heart  beat  fast  at  the  sight  of  a  woman  pinning 
clothes  to  the  line.  Her  fingers,  stiff  and  swol- 
len, moved  slowly.  The  same  instinct  that  had 
guided  him  down  this  road  made  him  dismount 
and  tie  his  horse.  The  old  woman  came  slowly 
down  the  little  path  to  meet  him. 

"I  am  David  Dunne,"  he  said  gently,  "and  I 
used  to  live  here.  I  wanted  to  come  to  see  my 
old  home  once  more." 

He  thought  that  the  dim  eyes  gazing  into  his 
were  the  saddest  he  had  ever  beheld. 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  with  the  slow,  German  ac- 
cent, "I  know  of  you.    Come  in." 

He  followed  her  into  the  little  sitting  room, 
which  was  as  barren  of  furnishings  as  it  had 
been  in  the  olden  days. 

136 


DAVID   DUNNE 

"Sit  down,"  she  invited. 

He  took  a  chair  opposite  a  cheap  picture  of  a 
youth  in  uniform.  A  flag  of  coarse  material 
was  pinned  above  this  portrait,  and  underneath 
was  a  roughly  carved  bracket  on  which  was  a 
glass  filled  with  goldenrod. 

"You  lived  here  with  your  mother,"  she  said 
musingly,  "and  she  was  taken.  I  lived  here 
with  my  son,  and — he  was  taken." 

"Oh!"  said  David.  "I  did  not  know — was 
he—" 

His  eyes  sought  the  picture  on  the  wall. 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  answering  his  unspoken 
question,  as  she  lifted  her  eyes  to  her  little 
shrine,  "he  enlisted  and  went  to  the  Philippines. 
He  died  there  of  fever  more  than  a  year  ago." 

David  was  silent.  His  brown,  boyish  hand 
shaded  his  eyes.  It  had  been  his  fault  that  he 
had  not  heard  of  this  old  woman  and  the  loss  of 
her  son.  He  had  shrunk  from  all  knowledge 
and  mention  of  this  little  home  and  its  inmates. 
The  country  folk  had  recognized  and  respected 
his  reticence,  which  to  people  near  the  soil  seems 
natural.    This  had  been  the  only  issue  in  his  life 

137 


DAVID   DUNNE 

that  he  had  dodged,  and  he  was  bitterly  re- 
penting his  negligence.  In  memory  of  his 
mother,  he  should  have  helped  the  lonely  old 
woman. 

"You  were  left  a  poor,  helpless  boy,"  she 
continued,  "and  I  am  left  a  poor,  helpless  old 
woman.  The  very  young  and  the  very  old 
meet  in  their  helplessness,  yet  there  is  hope  for 
the  one — nothing  for  the  other." 

"Yes,  memories,"  he  suggested  softly,  "and 
the  pride  you  feel  in  his  having  died  as  he  did." 

"There  is  that,"  she  acknowledged  with  a 
sigh,  "and  if  only  I  could  live  on  here  in  this  lit- 
tle place  where  we  have  been  so  happy!  But  I 
must  leave  it." 

"Why?"  asked  David  quickly. 

"After  my  Carl  died,  things  began  to  hap- 
pen. When  once  they  do  that,  there  is  no  stop- 
ping. The  bank  at  the  Corners  failed,  and  I 
lost  my  savings.  The  turkeys  wandered  away, 
the  cow  died,  and  now  there  's  the  mortgage. 
It  's  due  to-morrow,  and  then — the  man  that 
holds  it  will  wait  no  longer.  So  it  is  the  poor- 
house,  which  I  have  always  dreaded." 

138 


DAVID   DUNNE 

David's  head  lifted,  and  his  eyes  shone  ra- 
diantly as  he  looked  into  the  tired,  hopeless 
eyes. 

"Your  mortgage  will  be  paid  to-morrow, 
and —    Don't  you  draw  a  pension  for  your  son?" 

She  looked  at  him  in  a  dazed  way. 

"No,  there  is  no  pension — I — " 

"Judge  Thorne  will  get  you  one,"  he  said  op- 
timistically, as  he  rose,  ready  for  action,  "and 
how  much  is  the  mortgage?" 

"Three  hundred  dollars,"  she  said  despair- 
ingly. 

"Almost  as  much  as  the  place  is  worth.  Who 
holds  the  mortgage?" 

"Deacon  Prickley." 

"You  see,"  said  David,  trying  to  speak  cas- 
ually, "I  have  three  hundred  dollars  lying  idle 
for  which  I  have  no  use.  I  '11  ride  to  town  now 
and  have  the  Judge  see  that  the  place  is  clear  to 
you,  and  he  will  get  you  a  pension,  twelve  dol- 
lars a  month." 

The  worn,  seamed  face  lifted  to  his  was  trans- 
figured by  its  look  of  beatitude. 

"You   mustn't,"    she   implored.      "I    didn't 

139 


DAVID   DUNNE 

know  about  the  pension.  That  will  keep  me,  and 
I  can  find  another  little  place  somewhere.  But 
the  money  you  offer — no!  I  have  heard  how 
you  have  been  saving  to  go  through  school." 

He  smiled. 

"Uncle  Barnabas  and  the  Judge  are  anxious 
to  pay  my  expenses  at  college,  and — you  must 
let  me.  I  would  like  to  think,  don't  you  see,  that 
you  are  living  here  in  my  old  home.  It  will 
seem  to  me  as  if  I  were  doing  it  for  my  mother 
— as  I  would  want  some  boy  to  do  for  her  if  she 
were  left — and  it 's  my  country's  service  he  died 
in.  I  would  rather  buy  this  little  place  for  you, 
and  know  that  you  are  living  here,  than  to  buy 
anything  else  in  the  world." 

The  old  face  was  quite  beautiful  now. 

"Then  I  will  let  you,"  she  said  tremulously. 
"You  see,  I  am  a  hard-working  woman  and 
quite  strong,  but  folks  won't  believe  that,  be- 
cause I  am  old ;  so  they  won't  hire  me  to  do  their 
work,  and  they  say  I  should  go  to  the  poor- 
house.  But  to  old  folks  there 's  nothing  like 
having  your  own  things  and  your  own  ways. 
They  get  to  be  a  part  of  you.    I  was  thinking 

140 


DAVID   DUNNE 

when  you  rode  up  that  it  would  kill  me  not  to 
see  the  frost  on  the  old  poplar,  and  not  to  cover 
up  my  geraniums  on  the  chill  nights." 

Something  stirred  in  David's  heart  like  pain. 
He  stooped  and  kissed  her  gently.  Then  he 
rode  away,  rejoicing  that  he  had  worked  to  this 
end.  Four  hours  later  he  rode  back  to  the  little 
home. 

"The  Judge  has  paid  over  the  money  to  Old 
Skinflint  Prickley,"  he  said  blithely,  "and  the 
place  is  all  yours.  The  deacon  had  compounded 
the  interest,  which  is  against  the  laws  of  the 
state,  so  here  are  a  few  dollars  to  help  tide  you 
over  until  the  Judge  gets  the  pension  for  you." 

"David,"  she  said  solemnly,  "an  old  woman's 
prayers  may  help  you,  and  some  day,  when  you 
are  a  great  man,  you  will  do  great  deeds,  but 
none  of  them  will  be  as  great  as  that  which  you 
have  done  to-day." 

David  rode  home  with  the  echo  of  this  bene- 
diction in  his  ears.  He  had  asked  the  Judge  to 
keep  the  transaction  secret,  but  of  course  the 
Judge  told  Barnabas,  who  in  turn  informed 
Uncle  Larimy, 

J4J 


DAVID   DUNNE 

"I  told  the  boy  when  his  ma  died,"  said  Uncle 
Larimy,  "that  things  go  'skew  sometimes,  but 
that  the  sun  would  shine.  The  sun  will  allers  be 
a-shinin'  fer  him  when  he  does  such  deeds  as 
this." 


142 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  fare  to  his  college  town,  his  books,  and 
his  tuition  so  depleted  David's  capital  of 
one  hundred  dollars  that  he  hastened  to  deposit 
the  balance  for  an  emergency.  Then  he  set 
about  to  earn  his  "keep,"  as  he  had  done  in  the 
country,  but  there  were  many  students  bent  on 
a  similar  quest  and  he  soon  found  that  the  de- 
mand for  labor  was  exceeded  by  the  supply. 

Before  the  end  of  the  first  week  he  was  able  to 
write  home  that  he  had  found  a  nice,  quiet  lodg- 
ing in  exchange  for  the  care  of  a  furnace  in 
winter  and  the  trimming  of  a  lawn  in  other 
seasons,  and  that  he  had  secured  a  position  as 
waiter  to  pay  for  his  meals;  also  that  there  was 
miscellaneous  employment  to  pay  for  his  washing 
and  incidentals. 

He  did  n't  go  into  details  and  explain  that  the 
"nice  quiet  lodging"  was  a  third-floor  rear  whose 
gables  gave  David's  six  feet  of  length  but  little 
leeway.    It  was  quiet  because  the  third  floor  was 

143 


DAVID   DUNNE 

not  heated,  and  its  occupants  therefore  stayed 
away  as  much  as  possible.  His  services  as 
waiter  were  required  only  at  dinner  time,  in  ex- 
change for  which  he  received  that  meal.  His 
breakfast  and  luncheon  he  procured  as  best  he 
could;  sometimes  he  dispensed  with  them  en- 
tirely. Crackers,  milk,  and  fruit,  as  the  cheapest 
articles  of  diet,  appeared  oftenest  on  his  menu. 
Sometimes  he  went  fishing  and  surreptitiously 
smuggled  the  cream  of  the  catch  up  to  his  little 
abode,  for  Mrs.  Tupps'  "rules  to  roomers,"  as 
affixed  to  the  walls,  were  explicit:  "No  cooking 
or  washing  allowed  in  rooms."  But  Mrs.  Tupps, 
like  her  fires,  was  nearly  always  out,  for  she  was 
a  member  of  the  Woman's  Relief  Corps,  La- 
dies' Aid,  Ladies'  Guild,  Woman's  League,  Suf- 
fragette Society,  Pioneer  Society,  and  Eastern 
Star.  At  the  meetings  of  these  various  societies 
she  was  constant  in  attendance,  so  in  her  absence 
her  roomers  "made  hay,"  as  David  termed  it, 
cooking  their  provender  and  illicitly  performing 
laundry  work  in  the  bathtub.  Still,  there  must 
always  be  "on  guard"  duty,  for  Mrs.  Tupps  was 
a  stealthy  stalker.     One  saw  her  not,  but  now 

144 


DAVID   DUNNE 

and  then  there  was  a  faint  rustle  on  the  stair. 
David's  eyes  and  ears,  trained  to  keenness,  were 
patient  and  vigilant,  so  he  was  generally  chosen 
as  sentinel,  and  he  acquired  new  caution,  adroit- 
ness, and  a  quietness  of  movement. 

There  had  been  three  or  four  close  calls. 
Once,  she  had  knocked  at  his  door  as  he  was 
in  the  act  of  boiling  eggs  over  the  gas  jet.  In 
the  twinkling  of  an  eye  the  saucepan  was  thrust 
under  the  bed,  and  David,  sweet  and  serene  of 
expression,  opened  the  door  to  the  inquisitive- 
eyed  Tupps. 

"I  came  to  borrow  a  pen,"  she  said  shame- 
lessly, her  eyes  penetrating  the  cracks  and  crev- 
ices of  the  little  room. 

David  politely  regretted  that  he  used  an  in- 
delible pencil  and  possessed  no  pens. 

In  the  act  of  removing  all  records  and  re- 
mains of  feasts,  David  became  an  adept.  Neat, 
unsuspicious  looking  parcels  were  made  and  con- 
veyed, after  retiring  hours,  to  a  near-by  vacant 
lot,  where  once  had  been  visible  an  excavation 
for  a  cellar,  but  this  had  been  filled  to  street  level 
with  tin  cans,  paper  bags,  butter  bowls,  cracker 

145 

(10) 


DAVID   DUNNE 

cases,  egg  shells,  and  pie  plates  from  the  House 
of  Tupps. 

His  miscellaneous  employment,  mentioned  in 
his  letter,  was  any  sort  of  work  he  could  find 
to  do. 

David  became  popular  with  professors  by  rea- 
son of  his  record  in  classes  and  the  application 
and  concentration  he  brought  to  his  studies.  His 
prowess  in  all  sports,  his  fairness,  and  the  spirit 
of  camaraderie  he  always  maintained  with  his 
associates,  made  him  a  general  favorite.  He 
wore  fairly  good  clothes,  was  well  groomed,  and 
always  in  good  spirits,  so  of  his  privations  and 
poverty  only  one  or  two  of  those  closest  to  him 
were  even  suspicious.  He  was  entirely  reticent 
on  the  subject,  though  open  and  free  in  all  other 
discourse,  and  permitted  no  encroachment  on 
personal  matters.  One  or  two  chance  offenders 
intuitively  perceived  a  slight  but  impassable 
barrier. 

"Dunne  has  grown  a  little  gaunt- eyed  since 
he  first  came  here,"  said  one  of  his  chosen  friends 
to  a  classmate  one  evening.  "He 's  outdoors 
enough  to  counteract  overstudy.    But  do  you 

146 


DAVID    DUNNE 

suppose  he  has  enough  to  eat?    So  many  of 
these  fellows  live  on  next  to  nothing." 

"I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  he  were  on  ra- 
tions. You  know  he  always  makes  some  ex- 
cuse when  we  invite  him  to  a  spread.  He  's  too 
proud  to  accept  favors  and  not  reciprocate,  I 
believe." 

David  overheard  these  remarks,  and  a  very 
long  walk  was  required  to  restore  his  serenity. 
During  this  walk  he  planned  to  get  some  extra 
work  that  would  insure  him  compensation  req- 
uisite to  provide  a  modest  spread  so  that  he 
might  allay  their  suspicions.  Upon  his  return 
to  his  lodgings  he  found  an  enormous  box  which 
had  come  by  express  from  Lafferton.  It 
contained  Pennyroyal's  best  culinary  efforts; 
also  four  dozen  eggs,  a  two-pound  pat  of  but- 
ter, coffee,  and  a  can  of  cream. 

He  propitiated  Mrs.  Tupps  by  the  proffer 
of  a  dozen  of  the  eggs  and  told  her  of  his  de- 
sire to  entertain  his  friends.  It  would  be  im- 
possible to  do  this  in  his  room,  for  when  he  lay 
in  bed  he  could  touch  every  piece  of  furniture 
with  but  little  effort. 

H7 


DAVID   DUNNE 

David  had  become  his  landlady's  confidant 
and  refuge  in  time  of  trouble,  and  she  was  will- 
ing to  allow  him  the  privilege  of  the  dining 
room. 

"I  am  going  away  to-night  for  a  couple  of 
days,  but  I  would  rather  you  would  n't  mention 
it  to  the  others.  You  may  have  the  use  of  the 
dining  room  and  the  dishes." 

David's  friends  were  surprised  to  receive  an 
off-hand  invitation  from  him  to  "drop  in  for  a 
little  country  spread."  They  were  still  more 
surprised  when  they  beheld  the  long  table  with 
its  sumptuous  array  of  edibles, — raised  biscuits, 
golden  butter,  cold  chicken,  pickles,  jelly,  sug- 
ared doughnuts,  pork  cake,  gold  and  silver 
cake,  crullers,  mince  pie,  apple  pie,  cottage 
cheese,  cider,  and  coffee. 

"It  looks  like  a  county  fair  exhibit,  Dunne," 
said  a  city-bred  chap. 

Six  healthy  young  appetites  did  justice  to 
this  repast  and  insured  David's  acceptance  of 
five  invitations  to  dine.  It  took  Mrs.  Tupps 
and  David  fully  a  week  to  consume  the  rem- 
nants of  this  collation.     The  eggs  he  bestowed 

148 


"David's  friends  were  surprised  to  receive  an  off-hand  invitation  from 
him  to  'drop  in  for  a  little  country  spread'" 


DAVID   DUNNE 

upon  an  anemic-faced  lodger  who  had  been  pre- 
scribed a  milk  and  egg  diet,  but  with  eggs  at 
fifty  cents  a  dozen  he  had  not  filled  his  pre- 
scription. 

At  the  end  of  the  college  year  David  went 
back  to  the  farm,  and  a  snug  sense  of  comfort 
and  a  home-longing  filled  him  at  the  sight  of 
the  old  farmhouse,  its  lawn  stretching  into  gar- 
dens, its  gardens  into  orchards,  orchards 
into  meadows,  and  meadows  into  woodlands. 
Through  the  long,  hot  summer  he  tilled  the 
fields,  and  invested  the  proceeds  in  clothes  and 
books  for  the  ensuing  year. 

There  followed  three  similar  years  of  a  hand- 
to-mouth  existence,  the  privations  of  which  he 
endured  in  silence.  There  were  little  occasional 
oases,  such  as  boxes  from  Pennyroyal,  or  extra 
revenue  now  and  then  from  tutoring,  but  there 
were  many,  many  days  when  his  healthy  young 
appetite  clamored  in  vain  for  appeasement.  On 
such  days  came  the  temptation  to  borrow  from 
Barnabas  the  money  to  finish  his  course  in  com- 
fort, but  the  young  conqueror  never  yielded 
to    this    enticement.    He    grew    stronger    and 

149 


DAVID    DUNNE 

sturdier  in  spirit  after  each  conflict,  but  lost 
something  from  his  young  buoyancy  and  elastic- 
ity which  he  could  never  regain.  His  struggles 
added  a  touch  of  grimness  to  his  old  sense  of 
humor,  but  when  he  was  admitted  to  the  bar  he 
was  a  man  in  courage,  strength,  and  endurance. 


150 


CHAPTER  IV 

IT  seemed  to  David,  when  he  was  at  the  farm 
again,  that  in  his  absence  time  had  stood 
still,  except  with  Janey.  She  was  a  slender  slip 
of  a  girl,  gentle  voiced  and  soft  hearted.  Her 
eyes  were  infinitely  blue  and  lovely,  and  there 
was  a  glad  little  ring  in  her  voice  when  she 
greeted  "Davey." 

M'ri  gave  a  cry  of  surprised  pleasure  when 
she  saw  her  former  charge.  He  was  tall,  lithe, 
supple,  and  hard-muscled.  His  face  was  not 
very  expressive  in  repose,  but  showed  a  quiet 
strength  when  lighted  by  the  keenness  of  his 
serious,  brown  eyes  and  the  sweetness  of  his 
smile.    His  color  was  a  deep-sea  tan. 

"It  seems  so  good  to  be  alive,  Aunt  M'ri.  I 
thought  I  was  weaned  away  from  farm  life  un- 
til I  bit  into  one  of  those  snow  apples  from  the 
old  tree  by  the  south  corner  of  the  orchard. 
Then  I  knew  I  was  home." 

Pennyroyal  shed  her  first  visible  tear. 

151 


DAVID   DUNNE 

"I  am  glad  you  are  home  again,  David,"  she 
sniffed.     "You  were  always  such  a  clean  boy." 

"I  missed  you  more  'n  any  one  did,  David," 
acknowledged  Miss  Rhody.  "Ef  I  hed  been 
a  Catholic  I  should  a  felt  as  ef  the  confessional 
hed  been  took  from  me.  I  ain't  hed  no  one  to 
talk  secret  like  to  excep'  when  Joe  comes  onct 
a  year.  He  ain't  been  fer  a  couple  of  years, 
either,  but  he  sent  me  anuther  black  dress  the 
other  day — silk,  like  the  last  one.  To  think  of 
little  Joe  Forbes  a-growin'  up  and  keepin'  me 
in  silk  dresses!" 

"I  '11  buy  your  next  one  for  you,"  declared 
David  emphatically. 

The  next  day  after  his  return  from  college 
David  started  his  legal  labors  under  the  watch- 
ful eye  of  the  Judge.  He  made  a  leap-frog 
progress  in  acquiring  an  accurate  knowledge  of 
legal  lore.  He  worked  and  waited  patiently 
for  the  Judge's  recognition  of  his  readiness 
to  try  his  first  case,  and  at  last  the  eventful 
time  came. 

"No;  there  isn't  the  slightest  prospect  of  his 
winning  it,"  the  Judge  told  his  wife  that  night. 

152 


DAVID   DUNNE 

"The  prosecution  has  strong  evidence,  and  we 
have  nothing — barely  a  witness  of  any  account." 

"Then  the  poor  man  will  be  convicted  and 
David  will  gain  no  glory,"  lamented  M'ri.  "It 
means  so  much  to  a  young  lawyer  to  win  his 
first  case." 

The  Judge  smiled. 

"Neither  of  them  needs  any  sympathy. 
Miggs  ought  to  have  been  sent  over  the  road  long 
ago.  David  's  got  to  have  experience  before  he 
gains  glory." 

"How  did  you  come  to  take  such  a  case?" 
asked  M'ri,  for  the  Judge  was  quite  exclusive 
.  in  his  acceptance  of  clients. 

"It  was  David's  doings,"  said  the  Judge,  with 
a  frown  that  had  a  smile  lurking  behind  it. 

"Why  did  he  wish  you  to  take  the  case?" 
persisted  M'ri. 

"As  near  as  I  can  make  out,"  replied  the 
Judge,  with  a  slight  softening  of  his  grim 
features,  "it  was  because  Miggs'  wife  takes  in 
washing  when  Miggs  is  celebrating." 

M'ri  walked  quickly  to  the  window,  murmur- 
ing some  unintelligible  sound  of  endearment. 

153 


DAVID   DUNNE 

On  the  day  of  the  summing-up  at  the  trial 
the  court  room  was  crowded.  There  were  the 
habitual  court  hangers  on,  David's  country 
friends  en  masse,  a  large  filling  in  at  the  back 
of  the  representatives  of  the  highways  and 
byways,  associates  of  the  popular  wrongdoer, 
and  the  legal  lore  of  the  town,  with  the  good- 
humored  patronage  usually  bestowed  by  the 
profession  on  the  newcomer  to  their  ranks. 

As  the  Judge  had  said,  his  client  was  conceded 
to  be  slated  for  conviction.  If  he  had  made  the 
argument  himself  he  would  have  made  it  in  his 
usual  cool,  well-poised  manner.  But  David,  al- 
though he  knew  Miggs  to  be  a  veteran  of  the 
toughs,  felt  sure  of  his  innocence  in  this  case, 
and  he  was  determined  to  battle  for  him,  not  for 
the  sake  of  justice  alone,  but  for  the  sake  of 
the  tired-looking  washerwoman  he  had  seen 
bending  over  the  tubs.  This  was  an  occupation 
she  had  to  resort  to  only  in  her  husband's  times 
of  indulgence,  for  he  was  a  wage  earner  in  his 
days  of  soberness. 

When  David  arose  to  speak  it  seemed  to  the 
people  assembled  that  the  coil  of  evidence,  as 

154 


DAVID   DUNNE 

reviewed  by  the  prosecutor  in  his  argument,  was 
drawn  too  closely  for  any  power  to  extricate  the 
victim. 

At  the  first  words  of  the  young  lawyer, 
uttered  in  a  voice  of  winning  mellowness,  the 
public  forgot  the  facts  in  the  case.  Swayed  by 
the  charm  of  David's  personality,  a  current  of 
new-born  sympathy  for  the  prisoner  ran  through 
the  court  room. 

David  came  up  close  to  the  jury  and,  as  he 
addressed  them,  he  seemed  to  be  oblivious  of 
the  presence  of  any  one  else  in  the  room.  It 
was  as  though  he  were  telling  them,  his  friends, 
something  he  alone  knew,  and  that  he  was  sure 
of  their  belief  in  his  statements. 

"For  all  the  world,"  thought  M'ri,  listening, 
"as  he  used  to  tell  stories  when  he  was  a 
boy.  He  'd  fairly  make  you  believe  they  were 
true." 

To  be  sure  the  jury  were  all  his  friends;  they 
had  known  him  when  he  was  little  "barefoot 
Dave  Dunne."  Still,  they  were  captivated  by 
this  new  oratory,  warm,  vivid,  and  inspiring, 
delivered  to  the  accompaniment  of  dulcet  and 

155 


DAVID   DUNNE 

seductive  tones  that  transported  them  into  an 
enchanted  world.  Their  senses  were  stirred  in 
the  same  way  they  would  be  if  a  flag  were  un- 
furled. 

"Sounds  kind  o'  like  orgin  music,"  whispered 
Miss  Rhody. 

Yet  underneath  the  eloquence  was  a  logical 
simplicity,  a  keen  sifting  of  facts,  the  exposure 
of  flaws  in  the  circumstantial  evidence.  There 
was  a  force  back  of  what  he  said  like  the  force 
back  of  the  projectile.  About  the  form  of  the 
hardened  sinner,  Miggs,  David  drew  a  circle  of 
innocence  that  no  one  ventured  to  cross.  Sim- 
ply, convincingly,  and  concisely  he  summed  up, 
with  a  forceful  appeal  to  their  intelligence,  their 
honor,  and  their  justice. 

The  reply  by  the  assistant  to  the  prosecutor 
was  perfunctory  and  ineffective.  The  charge 
of  the  judge  was  neutral.  The  jury  left  the 
room,  and  were  out  eight  and  one-quarter  min- 
utes. As  they  filed  in,  the  foreman  sent  a  tri- 
umphant telepathic  message  to  David  before 
he  quietly  drawled  out: 

"Not  guilty,  yer  Honor." 

156 


DAVID   DUNNE 

The  first  movement  was  from  Mrs.  Miggs. 
And  she  came  straight  to  David,  not  to  the 
jury. 

"David,"  said  the  Judge,  who  had  cleared  his 
throat  desperately  and  wiped  his  glasses  care- 
fully, at  the  look  in  the  eyes  of  the  young  law- 
yer when  they  had  rested  on  the  defendant's 
wife,  "hereafter  our  office  will  be  the  refuge  for 
all  the  riffraff  in  the  country." 

This  was  his  only  comment,  but  the  Judge  did 
not  hesitate  to  turn  over  any  case  to  him 
thereafter. 

When  David  had  added  a  few  more  victories 
to  his  first  one,  Jud  made  one  of  his  periodical 
diversions  by  an  offense  against  the  law  which 
was  far  more  serious  in  nature  than  his  previous 
misdeeds  had  been.  M'ri  came  out  to  the  farm 
to  discuss  the  matter. 

"Barnabas,  Martin  thinks  you  had  better  let 
the  law  take  its  course  this  time.  He  says  it 's 
the  only  procedure  left  untried  to  reform  Jud. 
He  is  sure  he  can  get  a  light  sentence  for  him 
— two  years." 

"M'ri,"  said  Barnabas,  in  a  voice  vibrating 

157 


DAVID   DUNNE 

with  reproach,  "do  you  want  Jud  to  go  to 
prison?" 

M'ri  paled. 

"I  want  to  do  what  is  best  for  him,  Barnabas. 
Martin  thinks  it  will  be  a  salutary  lesson." 

"I  wonder,  M'ri,"  said  Barnabas  slowly,  "if 
the  Judge  had  a  son  of  his  own,  he  would  try 
to  reform  him  by  putting  him  behind  bars." 

"Oh,  Barnabas!"  protested  M'ri,  with  a  burst 
of  tears. 

"He  's  still  my  boy,  if  he  is  wild,  M'ri." 

"But,  Barnabas,  Martin's  patience  is  ex- 
hausted. He  has  got  him  out  of  trouble  so 
many  times — and,  oh,  Barnabas,  he  says  he 
won't  under  any  circumstances  take  the  case! 
He  is  ashamed  to  face  the  court  and  jury  with 
such  a  palpably  guilty  client.  I  have  pleaded 
with  him,  but  I  can't  influence  him.  You  know 
how  set  he  can  be!" 

"Wal,  there  are  other  lawyers,"  said  Barna- 
bas grimly. 

David  had  remained  silent  and  constrained 
during  this  conversation,  the  lines  of  his  young 
face  setting  like  steel.     Suddenly  he  left  the 

158 


'He  kept  his  word.     Jud  was  cleared" 


DAVID   DUNNE 

house  and  paced  up  and  down  in  the  orchard,  to 
wrestle  once  more  with  the  old  problem  of  his 
boyhood  days.  It  was  different  now.  Then  it 
had  been  a  question  of  how  much  he  must  stand 
from  Jud  for  the  sake  of  the  benefits  bestowed 
by  the  offender's  father.  Now  it  meant  a  sacri- 
fice of  principle.  He  had  made  his  boyish  boast 
that  he  would  defend  only  those  who  were 
wrongfully  accused.  To  take  this  case  would 
be  to  bring  his  wagon  down  from  the  star. 
Then  suddenly  he  found  himself  disposed  to 
arraign  himself  for  selfishly  clinging  to  his 
ideals. 

He  went  back  into  the  house,  where  M'ri  was 
still  tearfully  arguing  and  protesting.  He 
came  up  to  Barnabas. 

"I  will  clear  Jud,  if  you  will  trust  the  case  to 
me,  Uncle  Barnabas." 

Barnabas  grasped  his  hand. 

"Bless  you,  Dave,  my  boy,"  he  said.  "I 
wanted  you  to,  but  Jud  has  been — wal,  I  did  n't 
like  to  ask  you." 

"David,"  said  M'ri,  when  they  were  alone, 
"Martin  said  you  would  n't  take  a  case  where 

159 


DAVID   DUNNE 

you  were  convinced  of  the  guilt  of  the  client." 

"I  shall  take  this  case,"  was  David's  quiet 
reply. 

"Really,  David,  Martin  thinks  it  will  be  best 
for  Jud— " 

"I  don't  want  to  do  what  is  best  for  Jud, 
Aunt  M'ri,  I  want  to  do  what  is  best  for  Uncle 
Barnabas.  It 's  the  first  chance  I  ever  had  to 
do  anything  for  him." 

When  Judge  Thorne  found  that  David  was 
determined  to  defend  Jud,  he  gave  him  some 
advice : 

"You  must  get  counter  evidence,  if  you  can, 
David.  If  you  have  any  lingering  idea  that  you 
can  appeal  to  the  jury  on  account  of  Barnabas 
being  Jud's  father,  root  out  that  idea.  There  's 
no  chance  of  rural  juries  tempering  justice  with 
mercy.  With  them  it 's  an  eye  for  an  eye,  every 
time." 

David  had  an  infinitely  harder  task  in  clear- 
ing Jud  than  he  had  had  in  defending  Miggs. 
The  evidence  was  clear,  the  witnesses  sure 
and  wary,  and  the  prisoner  universally  detested 
save  by  his  evil-minded  companions,  but  these 

160 


DAVID   DUNNE 

obstacles  brought  out  in  full  force  all  David's 
indomitable  will  and  alertness.  He  tipped  up 
and  entrapped  the  prosecution's  witnesses  with 
lightning  dexterity.  One  of  them  chanced  to 
be  a  man  whom  David  had  befriended,  and  he 
aided  him  by  replying  shrewdly  in  Jud's  favor. 

But  it  was  Jud  himself  who  proved  to  be 
David's  trump  card.  He  was  keen,  crafty,  and 
quick  to  seize  his  lawyer's  most  subtle  sugges- 
tions. His  memory  was  accurate,  and  with 
David's  steering  he  avoided  all  traps  set  for 
him  on  cross  examination.  When  David  stood 
before  the  jury  for  the  most  stubborn  fight  he 
had  yet  made,  his  mother's  last  piece  of  advice 
— all  she  had  to  bequeath  to  him — permeated 
every  effort.  He  put  into  his  argument  all  the 
compelling  force  within  him.  There  were  no 
ornate  sentences  this  time,  but  he  concentrated 
his  powers  of  logic  and  persuasiveness  upon  his 
task.  The  jury  was  out  two  hours,  during 
which  time  Barnabas  and  Jud  sat  side  by  side, 
pale  and  anxious,  but  upheld  by  David's  con- 
fident assurance  of  victory. 

He  kept  his  word.    Jud  was  cleared. 

161 

(id 


DAVID   DUNNE 

"You  're  a  smart  lawyer,  Dave,"  commented 
Uncle  Larimy. 

David  looked  at  him  whimsically. 

"I  had  a  smart  client,  Uncle  Larimy." 

"That 's  what  you  did,  Dave,  but  he  's  gettin' 
too  dernd  smart.  You  'd  a  done  some  of  us  a 
favor  if  you  'd  let  him  git  sent  up." 


162 


CHAPTER  V 

4  6  T~^\  AVE,"  said  Barnabas  on  one  memorable 
*~*  day,  "the  Jedge  hez  hed  his  innings  try- 
ing to  make  you  a  lawyer.    Now  it 's  my  turn." 

"All  right,  Uncle  Barnabas,  I  am  ready." 

"Hain't  you  hed  enough  of  law,  Dave? 
You  've  given  it  a  good  trial,  and  showed  what 
you  could  do.  It  '11  be  a  big  help  to  you  to  know 
the  law,  and  it  '11  allers  be  sumthin'  to  fall  back 
on  when  things  get  slack,  but  ain't  you  pinin' 
fer  somethin'  a  leetle  spryer?" 

"Yes,  I  am,"  was  the  frank  admission.  "I 
like  the  excitement  attending  a  case,  and  the 
fight  to  win,  but  it 's  drudgery  between  times — 
like  soldiering  in  time  of  peace." 

"Wal,  Dave,  I  've  got  a  job  fer  you  wuth 
hevin',  and  one  that  starts  toward  what  you  air 
a-goin'  to  be." 

David's  breath  came  quickly. 

"What  is  it?" 

"Thar  's  no  reason  at  all  why  you  can't  go  to 

163 


DAVID   DUNNE 

legislatur'  and  make  new  laws  instead  of  settin' 
in  the  Jedge's  office  and  larnin'  to  dodge  old  ones. 
I  'm  a-runnin'  politics  in  these  parts,  and  I  'm 
a-goin'  to  git  you  nominated.  After  that,  you  '11 
go  the  hull  gamut — so  'twill  be  up  the  ladder 
and  over  the  wall  fer  you,  Dave." 

So,  David,  to  the  astonishment  of  the  Judge, 
put  his  foot  on  the  first  round  of  the  political 
ladder  as  candidate  for  the  legislature.  At  the 
same  time  Janey  returned  from  the  school  in 
the  East,  where  she  had  been  "finished,"  and 
David's  heart  beat  an  inspiring  tattoo  every 
time  he  looked  at  her,  but  he  was  nominated  by 
a  speech-loving,  speech-demanding  district,  and 
he  had  so  many  occasions  for  oratory  that  only 
snatches  of  her  companionship  were  possible 
throughout  the  summer. 

Joe  came  on  to  join  in  the  excitement  at- 
tending the  campaign.  It  had  been  some  time 
since  his  last  visit,  and  he  scarcely  recognized 
David  when  he  met  him  at  the  Lafferton  station. 

"Well,  Dave,"  said  the  ranchman,  "if  you 
are  as  strong  and  sure  as  you  look,  you  won't 
need  my  help  in  the  campaign." 

164 


DAVID   DUNNE 

"I  always  need  you,  Joe.  But  you  have  n't 
changed  in  the  least,  unless  you  look  more  serious 
than  ever,  perhaps." 

"It 's  the  outdoor  life  does  that.  Take  a 
field-bred  lad,  he  always  shies  a  bit  at  people." 

"Your  horse  does,  too,  I  notice.  He  arrived 
safely  a  week  ago,  and  I  put  him  up  at  the  liv- 
ery here  in  Lafferton.  I  was  afraid  he  would 
demoralize  all  the  horses  at  the  farm." 

"Good!  I'll  ride  out  this  evening.  I  have 
a  little  business  to  attend  to  here  in  town,  and 
I  want  to  see  the  Judge  and  his  wife,  of  course." 

When  the  western  sky  line  gleamed  in  crim- 
son glory  Joe  came  riding  at  a  long  lope  up  the 
lane.  He  sat  his  spirited  horse  easily,  one  leg 
thrown  over  the  horn  of  his  saddle.  As  he 
neared  the  house,  a  thrashing  machine  started 
up.  The  desert-bred  horse  shied,  and  performed 
maneuvers  terrifying  to  Janey,  but  Joe  in  the 
saddle  was  ever  a  part  of  the  horse.  Quietly 
and  impassively  he  guided  the  frightened 
animal  until  the  machine  was  passed.  Then  he 
slid  from  the  horse  and  came  up  to  Janey  and 
David,  who  were  awaiting  his  coming. 

165 


DAVID   DUNNE 

"This  can  never  be  little  Janey !"  he  exclaimed, 
holding  her  hand  reverently. 

"I  have  n't  changed  as  much  as  Davey  has," 
she  replied,  dimpling. 

"Oh,  yes,  you  have!  You  are  a  woman. 
David  is  still  a  boy,  in  spite  of  his  six  feet." 

"You  don't  know  about  Davey!"  she  said 
breathlessly.  "He  has  won  all  kinds  of  law 
cases,  and  he  is  going  to  the  legislature." 

Joe  laughed. 

"I  repeat,  he  is  still  a  boy." 

On  the  morrow  David  started  forth  on  a 
round  of  speech  making,  canvassing  the  entire 
district.  He  returned  at  the  wane  of  October's 
golden  glow  for  the  round-up,  as  Joe  termed 
the  finish  of  the  campaign.  The  flaunting  crim- 
son of  the  maples,  the  more  sedate  tinge  of 
the  oaks,  the  vivid  yellow  of  the  birches,  the 
squashes  piled  up  on  the  farmhouse  porches,  and 
the  fields  filled  with  pyramidal  stacks  of  corn- 
stalks brought  a  vague  sense  of  loneliness  as  he 
rode  out  from  Lafferton  to  the  farm.  He  left 
his  horse  at  the  barn  and  came  up  to  the  house 
through  the  old  orchard  as  the  long,  slanting 

166 


DAVID   DUNNE 

rays  of  sunlight  were  making  afternoon  shad- 
ows of  all  who  crossed  their  path. 

He  found  Janey  sitting  beneath  their  favor- 
ite tree.  An  open  book  lay  beside  her.  She 
was  gazing  abstractedly  into  space,  with  a  new 
look  in  her  star-like  eyes. 

David's  big,  untouched  heart  gave  a  quick 
leap.  He  took  up  the  book  and  with  an  exult- 
ant little  laugh  discovered  that  it  was  a  book  of 
poems!  Janey,  who  could  never  abide  fairy 
stories,  reading  poetry!  Surprised  and  embar- 
rassed, after  a  shy  greeting  she  hurried  toward 
the  house,  her  cheeks  flaming.  Something  very 
beautiful  and  breath-taking  came  into  David's 
thoughts  at  that  moment. 

He  was  roused  from  his  beatific  state  by  the 
approach  of  Barnabas,  so  he  was  obliged  to 
concentrate  his  attention  on  giving  a  resume  of 
his  tour.  Then  the  Judge  telephoned  for  him 
to  come  to  his  office,  and  he  was  unable  to  fin- 
ish his  business  there  until  dusk.  The  night  was 
clear  and  frost  touched.  He  left  his  horse  in 
the  lane  and  walked  up  to  the  house.  As  he 
came  on  to  the  porch  he  looked  in  through  the 

167 


DAVID   DUNNE 

window.  The  bright  fire  on  the  hearth,  the  soft 
glow  of  the  shaded  lamp,  and  the  fair-haired 
girl  seated  by  a  table,  needlework  in  hand,  gave 
him  a  hunger  for  a  hearth  of  his  own. 

Suddenly  the  scene  shifted.  Joe  came  in 
from  the  next  room.  Janey  rose  to  her  feet,  a 
look  of  love  lighting  her  face  as  she  went  to  the 
arms  outstretched  to  receive  her. 


168 


CHAPTER  VI 

DAVID  went  back  to  Lafferton.  The  lit- 
tle maid  informed  him  that  the  Judge  and 
his  wife  were  out  for  the  evening;  but  there  was 
always  a  room  in  readiness  for  him,  so  he  sat 
alone  by  the  window,  staring  into  the  lighted 
street,  trying  to  comprehend  that  Janey  was  not 
for  him. 

It  was  late  the  next  morning  when  he  came 
downstairs. 

"I  am  glad,  David,  you  decided  to  stay  here 
last  night,"  said  M'ri,  whose  eyes  were  full  of 
a  yearning  solicitude. 

She  sat  down  at  the  table  with  him  while  he 
drank  his  coffee. 

"David." 

She  spoke  in  a  desperate  tone,  that  caused  him 
to  glance  keenly  at  her. 

"If  you  have  anything  to  tell,"  he  said  quietly, 
"it 's  a  good  plan  to  tell  it  at  once." 

"Since  you  have  been  away  Joe  and  Janey 

169 


DAVID   DUNNE 

have  been  together  constantly.  It  seems  to 
have  been  a  case  of  mutual  love.  David,  they 
are  engaged." 

"So,"  he  said  gravely,  "I  am  to  lose  my  little 
sister.    Joe  is  a  man  in  a  thousand." 

"But,  David,  I  had  set  my  heart  on  Janey's 
marrying  you,  from  that  very  first  day  when 
you  went  to  school  together  and  you  carried  her 
books.     Do  you  remember?" 

"Yes,"  he  replied  whimsically,  "but  even  then 
Joe  met  us  and  took  her  away  from  me.  But 
I  must  drive  out  and  congratulate  them." 

M'ri  gazed  after  him  in  perplexity  as  he  left 
the  house. 

"I  wonder,"  she  mused,  "if  I  ever  quite 
understood  David!" 

Miss  Rhody  called  to  David  as  he  was  pass- 
ing her  house  and  bade  him  come  in. 

"You  Ve  hed  a  hard  trip,"  she  said,  with  a 
keen  glance  into  his  tired,  boyish  eyes. 

"Very  hard,  Miss  Rhody." 

"You  have  heard  about  Janey — and  Joe?" 

"Aunt  M'ri  just  told  me,"  he  said,  wincing 
ever  so  slightly. 

170 


DAVID   DUNNE 

"They  was  all  sot  on  your  being  her  sweet- 
heart, except  me  and  her — and  Joe." 

"Why  not  you,  Miss  Rhody?" 

"You  ain't  never  been  in  love  with  Janey — 
not  the  way  you  '11  love  some  day.  When  I 
was  sick  last  fall  Almiry  Green  come  over  to 
read  to  me  and  she  brung  a  book  of  poems.  I 
never  keered  much  for  po'try,  and  Almiry,  she 
didn't  nuther,  but  she  hed  jest  ketched  Wid- 
ower Pankey,  and  so  she  thought  it  was  proper 
to  be  readin'  po'try.  She  read  somethin'  about 
fust  love  bein'  a  primrose,  and  a-fallin'  to 
make  way  fer  the  real  rose,  and  I  thought  to 
myself:  'That 's  David.  His  feelin'  fer  Janey 
is  jest  a  primrose.'  " 

David's  eyes  were  inscrutable,  but  she  con- 
tinued : 

"I  knowed  she  hed  allers  fancied  Joe  sence 
she  was  a  little  tot  and  he  give  her  them  beads. 
When  Joe's  name  was  spoke  she  was  allers  shy- 
like.     She  wuz  never  shy-like  with  you." 

"No,"  admitted  David  wearily,  "but  I  must 
go  on  to  the  farm  now,  Miss  Rhody.  I  will 
come  in  again  soon." 

171 


DAVID   DUNNE 

When  he  came  into  the  sitting  room  of  the 
farmhouse,  where  he  found  Joe  and  Janey,  the 
rare  smile  that  comes  with  the  sweetness  of 
renunciation  was  on  his  lips.  After  he  had  con- 
gratulated them,  he  asked  for  Barnabas. 

"He  just  started  for  the  woods,"  said  Joe. 
"I  think  he  is  on  his  way  to  Uncle  Larimy's." 

David  hastened  to  overtake  him,  and  soon 
caught  sight  of  the  bent  figure  walking  slowly 
over  the  stubbled  field. 

"Uncle  Barnabas!"  he  called. 

Barnabas  turned  and  waited. 

"Did  you  see  Janey  and  Joe?"  he  asked,  look- 
ing keenly  into  the  shadowed  eyes. 

"Yes;  Aunt  M'ri  had  told  me." 

"When?" 

"This  morning.  Joe  's  a  man  after  your  own 
heart,  Uncle  Barnabas." 

"It 's  you  I  wanted  fer  her,"  said  the  old  man 
bluntly.  "I  never  dreamt  of  its  bein'  enybody 
else.  It 's  an  orful  disapp'intment  to  me, 
Dave.  I  'd  ruther  see  you  her  man  than  to  see 
you  what  I  told  you  long  ago  I  meant  fer  you 
to  be." 

172 


DAVID   DUNNE 

"And  I,  too,  Uncle  Barnabas,"  said  David, 
with  slow  earnestness,  "would  rather  be  your 
son  than  to  be  governor  of  this  state!" 

"You  did  care,  then,  David,"  said  the  old 
man  sadly.  "It  don't  seem  to  be  much  of  a 
surprise  to  you." 

"Uncle  Barnabas,  I  will  tell  you  something 
which  I  want  no  one  else  to  know.  I  came  back 
last  evening  and  drove  out  here.  I  looked  in 
the  window,  and  saw  her  as  she  sat  at  work.  It 
came  into  my  heart  to  go  in  then  and  ask  her 
to  marry  me,  instead  of  waiting  until  after 
election  as  I  had  planned.  Then  Joe  came  in 
and  she — went  to  him.  I  returned  to  Laffer- 
ton.  It  was  daylight  before  I  had  it  out  with 
myself." 

"Dave!  I  thought  I  knew  you  better  than 
any  of  them.  It 's  been  a  purty  hard  test,  but 
you  won't  let  it  spile  your  life?" 

"No,  I  won't,  Uncle  Barnabas.  I  owe  it  to 
you,  if  not  to  myself,  to  go  straight  ahead  as 
you  have  mapped  it  out  for  me." 

"Bless  you,  Dave!    You're  the  right  stuff!" 


173 


PART  THREE 

CHAPTER  I 

IN  January  David  took  his  seat  in  the  House 
of  Representatives,  of  which  he  was  the 
youngest  member.  It  was  not  intended  by  that 
august  body  that  he  should  take  any  role  but 
the  one  tacitly  conceded  to  him  of  making 
silver-tongued  oratory  on  the  days  when  the 
public  would  crowd  the  galleries  to  hear  an  all- 
important  measure,  the  "Griggs  Bill,"  discussed. 
The  committee  were  to  give  him  the  facts  and 
the  general  line  of  argument,  and  he  was  to 
dress  it  up  in  his  fantastic  way.  They  were 
entirely  willing  that  he  should  have  the  applause 
from  the  public  as  well  as  the  credit  of  the  vic- 
tory; all  they  cared  for  was  the  certainty  of  the 
passage  of  the  bill. 

David's  cool,  lawyer-like  mind  saw  through 
all  these  manipulations  and  machinations  even 
if  he  were  only  a  political  tenderfoot.    As  other 

174 


DAVID   DUNNE 

minor  measures  came  up  he  voted  for  or  against 
them  as  his  better  judgment  dictated,  but  all 
his  leisure  hours  were  devoted  to  the  investiga- 
tion and  study  of  the  one  big  bill  which  was  to 
be  rushed  through  at  the  end  of  the  session.  He 
pored  over  the  status  of  the  law,  found  out  the 
policies  and  opinions  of  other  states  on  the  sub- 
ject, and  listened  attentively  to  all  arguments, 
but  he  never  took  part  in  the  discussions  and  he 
was  very  guarded  in  giving  an  expression  of 
his  views,  an  attitude  which  pleased  the  pro- 
moters of  the  bill  until  it  began  to  occur  to  them 
that  his  caution  came  from  penetration  into 
their  designs  and,  perhaps,  from  intent  to  thwart 
them. 

"He  has  ketched  on,"  mournfully  stated  an 
old-timer  from  the  third  district.  "I  'm  allers 
mistrustful  of  these  young  critters.  They  are 
sure  to  balk  on  the  home  stretch." 

"Well,  one  good  thing,"  grinned  a  city  mem- 
ber, "it  breaks  their  record,  and  they  don't  get 
another  entry." 

David  had  made  a  few  short  speeches  on 
some  of  the  bills,  and  those  who  had  read  in  the 

175 


DAVID   DUNNE 

papers  of  the  wonderful  powers  of  oratory  of 
the  young  member  from  the  eleventh  flocked 
to  hear  him.  They  were  disappointed.  His 
speeches  were  brief,  forceful,  and  logical,  but 
entirely  barren  of  rhetorical  effect.  The  pro- 
moters of  the  Griggs  Bill  began  to  wonder,  but 
concluded  he  was  saving  all  his  figures  of  speech 
to  sugarcoat  their  obnoxious  measure.  It  oc- 
curred to  them,  too,  that  if  by  chance  he  should 
oppose  them  his  bare-handed  way  of  dealing 
with  subterfuges  and  his  clear  presentation  of 
facts  would  work  harm.  They  counted,  however, 
on  being  able  to  convince  him  that  his  future 
status  in  the  life  political  depended  upon  his 
cooperation  with  them  in  pushing  this  bill 
through. 

Finally  he  was  approached,  and  then  the 
bomb  was  thrown.  He  quietly  and  emphatically 
told  them  he  should  fight  the  bill,  single 
handed  if  necessary.  Recriminations,  argu- 
ments, threats,  and  inducements — all  were  of  no 
avail. 

"Let  him  hang  himself  if  he  wants  to," 
growled  one  of  the   committee.      "He   has  n't 

176 


DAVID   DUNNE 

influence  enough  to  knock  us  out.  We  Ve  got 
the  majority." 

The  measure  was  one  that  would  radically 
affect  the  future  interests  of  the  state,  and  was 
being  watched  and  studied  by  the  people,  who 
had  not,  as  yet,  however,  realized  its  significance 
or  its  far-reaching  power.  The  intent  of  the 
promoters  of  the  Griggs  Bill  was  to  leave  the 
people  unenlightened  until  it  should  have  be- 
come a  law. 

"Dunne  won't  do  us  any  harm,"  argued  the 
father  of  the  bill  on  the  eventful  day.  "He  's 
been  saving  all  his  skyrockets  for  this  celebra- 
tion. He  '11  get  lots  of  applause  from  the 
women  folks,"  looking  up  at  the  solidly  packed 
gallery,  "and  his  speech  will  be  copied  in  all  the 
papers,  and  that  '11  be  the  reward  he  's  looking 
for." 

When  David  arose  to  speak  against  the 
Griggs  Bill  he  did  n't  look  the  youngster  he  had 
been  pictured.  His  tall,  lithe,  compelling  fig- 
ure was  drawn  to  its  full  height.  His  eyes 
darkened  to  intensity  with  the  gravity  of  the 
task  before  him;  the  stern  lines  of  his  mouth 

177 

(12) 


DAVID    DUNNE 

bespoke  a  master  of  the  situation  and  compelled 
confidence  in  his  knowledge  and  ability. 

The  speech  delivered  in  his  masterful  voice 
was  not  so  much  in  opposition  to  the  bill  as  it 
was  an  exposure  of  it.  He  bared  it  ruthlessly 
and  thoroughly,  but  he  did  n't  use  his  youthful 
hypnotic  periods  of  persuasive  eloquence  that 
had  been  wont  to  sway  juries  and  to  creep  into 
campaign  speeches.  His  wits  had  been  sharp- 
ened in  the  last  few  months,  and  his  keen-edged 
thrusts,  hurled  rapier-like,  brought  a  wince  to 
even  the  most  hardened  of  veteran  members. 
It  was  a  complete  enlightenment  in  plain  words 
to  a  plain  people — a  concise  and  convincing 
protest. 

When  he  finished  there  was  a  tempest  of  argu- 
ments from  the  other  side,  but  there  was  not 
a  point  he  had  not  foreseen,  and  as  attack  only 
brought  out  the  iniquities  of  the  measure,  they 
let  the  bill  come  to  ballot.  The  measure  was 
defeated,  and  for  days  the  papers  were  head- 
lined with  David  Dunne's  name,  and  accounts 
of  how  the  veterans  had  been  routed  by  the 
"tenderfoot  from  the  eleventh." 

178 


DAVID   DLNNE 

After  his  dip  into  political  excitement  legal 
duties  became  a  little  irksome  to  David,  espe- 
cially after  the  wedding  of  Joe  and  Janey  had 
taken  place.  In  the  fall  occurred  the  death  of 
the  United  States  senator  from  the  western  dis- 
trict of  the  state.  A  special  session  of  the  leg- 
islature was  to  be  convened  for  the  purpose  of 
pushing  through  an  important  measure,  and  the 
election  of  a  successor  to  fill  the  vacancy 
would  take  place  at  the  same  time.  The  usual 
"certain  rich  man,"  anxious  for  a  career,  as- 
pired, and,  as  he  was  backed  by  the  state  ma- 
chine as  well  as  by  the  covert  influence  of  two 
or  three  of  the  congressmen,  his  election  seemed 
assured. 

There  was  an  opposing  candidate,  the  choice 
of  the  people,  however,  who  was  gathering 
strength  daily. 

"We  've  got  to  head  off  this  man  Dunne 
some  way,"  said  the  manager  of  the  "certain 
rich  man."  "He  can't  beat  us,  but  with  him 
out  of  the  way  it  would  be  easy  sailing,  and  all 
opposition  would  come  over  to  us  on  the  sec- 
ond ballot." 

179 


DAVID   DUNNE 

the  telephone  in  another  room.  When  he  re- 
turned the  congressman  had  taken  his  departure. 

"Behold,"  grinned  David,  "the  future  consul 
of — I  really  can't  pronounce  it.  I  am  going  to 
look  it  up  now  in  your  atlas." 

"Where  is  Gilbert?"  asked  the  Judge. 

"Gone  to  wire  Hilliard  before  I  can  change 
my  mind.  You  see,  it 's  a  scheme  to  get  me  out 
of  the  road  and  I — well  I  happen  to  be  willing 
to  get  out  of  the  road  just  now.  I  am  not  in  a 
fighting  mood." 

"Consular  service,"  remarked  the  Judge  oracu- 
larly, "is  generally  considered  a  sort  of  clear- 
ing house  for  undesirable  politicians.  The 
consuls  to  those  little  ports  are,  as  a  rule,  very 
poor." 

"Then  a  good  consul  like  your  junior  partner 
will  loom  up  among  so  many  poor  ones." 

Barnabas  was  inwardly  disturbed  by  this 
move  from  David,  but  he  philosophically  ar- 
gued that  "the  boy  was  young  and  't  would  n't 
harm  him  to  salt  down  awhile." 

"Dave,"  he  counseled  in  farewell,  "I  hope 
you  '11  come  to  love  some  good  gal.    Every  man 

182 


DAVID    DUNNE 

orter  hev  a  hearth  of  his  own.  This  stretchin' 
yer  feet  afore  other  folks'  firesides  is  unilateral 
and  lonesome.  Thar  's  no  place  so  snug  and 
safe  f er  a  man  as  his  own  home,  with  a  good  wife 
to  keep  it.  But  I  want  you  tew  make  me  a 
promise,  Dave.  When  I  see  the  time  's  ripe  f  er 
pickin'  in  politics,  will  you  come  back?" 

"I  will,  Uncle  Barnabas,"  promised  David 
solemnly. 

The  heartiest  approval  came  from  Joe. 

"That 's  right,  Dave,  see  all  you  can  of  the 
world  instead  of  settling  down  in  a  pasture  lot 
at  Lafferton." 


183 


DAVID   DUNNE 

the  telephone  in  another  room.  When  he  re- 
turned the  congressman  had  taken  his  departure. 

"Behold,"  grinned  David,  "the  future  consul 
of — I  really  can't  pronounce  it.  I  am  going  to 
look  it  up  now  in  your  atlas." 

"Where  is  Gilbert?"  asked  the  Judge. 

"Gone  to  wire  Hilliard  before  I  can  change 
my  mind.  You  see,  it 's  a  scheme  to  get  me  out 
of  the  road  and  I — well  I  happen  to  be  willing 
to  get  out  of  the  road  just  now.  I  am  not  in  a 
righting  mood." 

"Consular  service,"  remarked  the  Judge  oracu- 
larly, "is  generally  considered  a  sort  of  clear- 
ing house  for  undesirable  politicians.  The 
consuls  to  those  little  ports  are,  as  a  rule,  very 
poor." 

"Then  a  good  consul  like  your  junior  partner 
will  loom  up  among  so  many  poor  ones." 

Barnabas  was  inwardly  disturbed  by  this 
move  from  David,  but  he  philosophically  ar- 
gued that  "the  boy  was  young  and  't  would  n't 
harm  him  to  salt  down  awhile." 

"Dave,"  he  counseled  in  farewell,  "I  hope 
you  '11  come  to  love  some  good  gal.    Every  man 

182 


DAVID   DUNNE 

orter  hev  a  hearth  of  his  own.  This  stretchin' 
yer  feet  afore  other  folks'  firesides  is  unilateral 
and  lonesome.  Thar  's  no  place  so  snug  and 
safe  f er  a  man  as  his  own  home,  with  a  good  wife 
to  keep  it.  But  I  want  you  tew  make  me  a 
promise,  Dave.  When  I  see  the  time  's  ripe  f  er 
pickin'  in  politics,  will  you  come  back?" 

"I  will,  Uncle  Barnabas,"  promised  David 
solemnly. 

The  heartiest  approval  came  from  Joe. 

"That 's  right,  Dave,  see  all  you  can  of  the 
world  instead  of  settling  down  in  a  pasture  lot 
at  Lafferton." 


183 


CHAPTER  II 

GILBERT,  complacent  and  affable,  re- 
turned to  Washington  accompanied  by 
David.  A  month  later  the  newly  made  consul 
sailed  from  New  York  for  South  America.  He 
landed  at  a  South  American  seaport  that  had  a 
fine  harbor  snugly  guarded  by  jutting  cliffs 
skirting  the  base  of  a  hill  barren  and  severe  in 
aspect. 

As  he  walked  down  the  narrow,  foreign  streets 
thronged  with  a  strange  people,  and  saw  the 
structures  with  their  meaningless  signs,  he  began 
to  feel  a  wave  of  homesickness.  Then,  looking 
up,  he  felt  that  little  inner  thrill  that  comes  from 
seeing  one's  flag  in  a  foreign  land. 

"And  that  is  why  I  am  here,"  he  thought,  "to 
keep  that  flag  flying." 

He  resolutely  started  out  on  the  first  day  to 
keep  the  flag  flying  in  the  manner  befitting  the 
kind  of  a  consul  he  meant  to  be.  He  maintained 
a  strict  watch  over  the  commercial  conditions, 

184 


DAVID   DUNNE 

and  his  reports  of  consular  news  were  promptly 
rendered  in  concise  and  instructive  form.  His 
native  tact  and  inherent  courtesy  won  him  favor 
with  the  government,  his  hospitality  and  kindly 
intent  conciliated  the  natives,  and  he  was  soon 
also  accorded  social  privileges.  He  began  to  en- 
joy life.  His  duties  were  interesting,  and  his 
leisure  was  devoted  to  the  pursuit  of  novel 
pleasures. 

Fletcher  Wilder,  the  son  of  the  president  of 
an  American  mining  company,  was  down  there 
ostensibly  to  look  after  his  father's  interests,  but 
in  reality  to  take  out  pleasure  parties  in  his  trim 
little  yacht,  and  David  soon  came  to  be  the  most 
welcome  guest  that  set  foot  on  its  deck. 

At  the  end  of  a  year,  when  his  duties  had  be- 
come a  matter  of  routine  and  his  life  had  lost 
the  charm  of  novelty,  David's  ambitions  started 
from  their  slumbers,  though  not  this  time  in  a 
political  way.  Wilder  had  cruised  away,  and 
the  young  consul  was  conscious  of  a  sense  of 
aloneness.  He  spent  his  evenings  on  his  spacious 
veranda,  from  where  he  could  see  the  moonlight 
making  a  rippling  road  of  silver  across  the  black 

185 


DAVID   DUNNE 

water.  The  sensuous  beauty  of  the  tropical 
nights  brought  him  back  to  his  early  Land  of 
Dreams,  and  the  pastime  that  he  had  been  forced 
to  relinquish  for  action  now  appealed  to  him  with 
overwhelming  force  and  fascination.  But  the 
dreams  were  a  man's  dreams,  not  the  fleeting 
fancies  of  a  boy.  They  continued  to  possess  and 
absorb  him  until  one  night,  when  he  was  look- 
ing above  the  mountains  at  one  lone  star  that 
shone  brighter  than  the  rest,  he  was  moved 
for  the  first  time  to  give  material  shape  and 
form  to  his  conceptions.  The  impulse  led  to 
execution. 

"I  must  get  it  out  of  my  system,"  he  explained 
half  apologetically  to  himself  as  he  began  the 
writing  of  a  novel.  To  this  task,  as  to  every- 
thing else  he  had  undertaken,  he  brought  the  en- 
tire concentration  of  his  mind  and  energy,  until 
the  book  soon  began  to  seem  real  to  him — more 
real  than  anything  he  had  done.  As  he  was  copy- 
ing the  last  page  for  the  last  time,  Fletcher  sailed 
into  the  harbor  for  a  week  of  farewell  before 
returning  to  New  York. 

"What  have  you  been  doing  for  amusement 

186 


DAVID   DUNNE 

these  last  six  months,  Dunne?"  he  asked  as  he 
dropped  into  David's  house. 

"You  'd  never  guess,"  said  David,  "what  your 
absence  drove  me  to.  I  've  written  a  book — a 
novel." 

"Let  me  take  it  back  to  the  hotel  with  me 
to-night.  I  have  n't  been  sleeping  well  lately, 
and  it  may — " 

"If  it  serves  as  a  soporific,"  said  David  gravely, 
as  he  handed  him  the  bulky  package,  "my  labor 
will  not  have  been  in  vain." 

The  next  morning  Wilder  came  again  into 
David's  office. 

"I  fear  you  did  n't  sleep  well,  after  all,"  ob- 
served David,  looking  at  his  visitor's  heavy- 
lidded  eyes. 

"No,  darn  you,  Dunne.  I  took  up  your  man- 
uscript and  I  never  laid  it  down  until  the  first 
streaks  of  dawn.  Then  when  I  went  to  bed  I 
lay  awake  thinking  it  all  over.  Why,  Dunne, 
it 's  the  best  book  I  ever  read!" 

"I  wish,"  David  replied  with  a  whimsical 
smile,  "that  you  were  a  publisher." 

"Speaking  of  publishers,  that 's  why  I  did  n't 

187 


DAVID   DUNNE 

bring  the  manuscript  back.  I  sail  in  a  week,  and 
I  want  you  to  let  me  take  it  to  a  publisher  I 
know  in  New  York.  He  will  give  it  a  prompt 
reading." 

"If  it  would  n't  bother  you  too  much,  I  wish 
you  would.  You  see,  it  would  take  so  long  for 
it  to  come  back  here  and  be  sent  out  again  each 
time  it  is  rejected." 

"Rejected!"  scoffed  Wilder.  "You  wait  and 
see !    Are  n't  you  going  to  dedicate  it  ?" 

David  hesitated,  his  eyes  stealing  dreamily  out 
across  the  bay  to  the  horizon  line. 

"I  wonder,"  he  said  meditatively,  "if  the  per- 
son to  whom  it  is  dedicated — every  word  of  it — 
would  n't  know  without  the  inscription." 

"No,"  objected  Fletcher,  "you  should  have  it 
appear  out  of  compliment." 

He  smiled  as  he  wrote  on  a  piece  of  paper: 
"To  T.  L.  P." 

"The  initials  of  your  sweetheart?"  quizzed 
Fletcher. 

"No;  when  I  was  a  little  chap  I  used  to  spin 
yarns.  These  are  the  initials  of  one  who  was  my 
most  absorbed  listener." 

188 


DAVID   DUNNE 

Wilder  raised  anchor  and  sailed  back  to  the 
states.  At  the  expiration  of  two  months  he 
wrote  David  that  his  book  had  been  accepted. 
In  time  ten  bound  copies  of  his  novel,  his  allot- 
ment from  the  publishers,  brought  him  a  thrill 
of  indescribable  pleasure.  The  next  mail  brought 
papers  with  glowing  reviews  and  letters  of  com- 
mendation and  congratulations.  Next  came  a 
good-sized  check,  and  the  information  that  his 
book  was  a  "best  seller." 

The  night  that  this  information  was  received 
he  went  up  to  the  top  of  the  hill  that  jutted  over 
the  harbor  and  listened  to  the  song  of  the  waves. 
Two  years  in  this  land  of  liquid  light — a  land  of 
burning  days  and  silent,  sapphired  nights,  a  land 
of  palms  and  olives — two  years  of  quiet,  dreamy 
bliss,  an  idle  and  unsubstantial  time!  How 
evar  ascent  it  seemed,  by  the  light  of  the  days  at 
home,  when  something  had  always  pressed  him 
to  action. 

"Two  years  of  drifting,"  he  thought.  "It  is 
time  I,  too,  raised  anchor  and  sailed  home." 

The  next  mail  brought  a  letter  that  made  his 
heart  beat  faster  than  it  had  yet  been  able  to  do 

189 


DAVID   DUNNE 

in  this  exotic,  lazy  land.     It  was  a  recall  from 
Barnabas. 

"Dear  Dave: 

"Nothing  but  a  lazy  life  in  a  foreign  land  would  have 
drove  a  man  like  you  to  write  a  book.  The  Jedge  and 
M'ri  are  pleased,  but  I  know  you  are  cut  out  for  something 
different.  I  want  you  to  come  home  in  time  to  run  for  leg- 
islature again.  There  's  goin'  to  be  something  doin'.  It 
is  time  for  another  senator,  and  who  do  you  suppose  is 
plugging  for  it,  and  opening  hogsheads  of  money? 
Wilksley.  I  want  for  you  to  come  back  and  head  him 
off.  If  you  've  got  one  speck  of  your  old  spirit,  and  you 
care  anything  about  your  state,  you  '11  do  it.  I  am  still 
running  politics  for  this  county  at  the  old  stand.  Your 
book  has  started  folks  to  talking  about  you  agen,  so  come 
home  while  the  picking  is  good.  You  've  dreamt  long 
enough.  It  is  time  to  get  up.  Don't  write  no  more  books 
till  you  git  too  old  to  work. 

"Yours  if  you  come, 

"B.  B." 

The  letter  brought  to  David's  eyes  something 
that  no  one  in  this  balmy  land  had  ever  seen  there. 
With  the  look  of  a  fighter  belted  for  battle  he 
went  to  the  telegraph  office  and  cabled  Barnabas, 
"Coming." 


190 


CHAPTER  III 

ON  his  return  to  Lafferton  David  was  met 
at  the  train  by  the  Judge,  M'ri,  and 
Barnabas. 

"Your  trunks  air  goin'  out  to  the  farm,  Dave, 
ain't  they?"  asked  Barnabas  wistfully. 

"Of  course,"  replied  David,  with  an  emphasis 
that  brought  a  look  of  pleasure  to  the  old  man. 

"Your  telegram  took  a  great  load  offen  my 
mind,"  he  said,  as  they  drove  out  to  the  farm. 
"Miss  Rhody  told  me  all  along  I  need  hev  no 
fears  f er  you,  that  you  were  n't  no  dawdler." 

"Good  for  Miss  Rhody!"  laughed  David. 
"She  shall  have  her  reward.  I  brought  her  silk 
enough  for  two  dresses  at  least." 

"David,"  said  M'ri  suddenly  at  the  dinner 
table,  "do  tell  me  for  whose  name  those  initials 
in  the  dedication  to  your  book  stand.  Is  it  any 
one  I  know?" 

"I  hardly  know  the  person  myself,"  was  the 
smiling  and  evasive  reply. 

191 


DAVID   DUNNE 

"A  woman,  David?" 

"She  figured  largely  in  my  fairy  stories." 

"A  nickname  he  had  for  Janey,"  she  thought 
with  a  sigh. 

"Uncle  Barnabas,"  said  David  the  next  day, 
"before  we  settle  down  to  things  political  tell  me 
if  you  regret  my  South  American  experience." 

"Now  that  you  're  back  and  gittin'  into  har- 
ness, I  '11  overlook  anything.  You  'd  earnt  a 
breathing  spell,  and  you  look  a  hull  lot  older. 
Your  book  's  kep'  your  name  in  the  papers,  tew, 
which  helps." 

"I  will  show  you  something  that  proves  the 
book  did  more  than  that,"  said  David,  drawing 
his  bank  book  from  his  pocket  and  passing  it  to 
the  old  man,  who  read  it  unbelievingly. 

"Why,  Dave,  you  're  rich!"  he  exclaimed. 

"No;  not  rich.  I  shall  always  have  to  work 
for  my  living.    So  tell  me  the  situation." 

This  fully  occupied  the  time  it  took  to  drive 
to  town,  for  Cold  Molasses,  successor  to  Old 
Hundred,  kept  the  pace  his  name  indicated. 
The  day  was  spent  in  meeting  old  friends,  and 
then  David  settled  down  to  business  with  his 

192 


DAVID   DUNNE 

old-time  energy.  Once  more  he  was  nominated 
for  the  legislature  and  took  up  the  work  of 
campaigning  for  Stephen  Hume,  opponent  to 
Wilksley.  Hume  was  an  ardent,  honest,  clean- 
handed politician  without  money,  but  he  had 
for  manager  one  Ethan  Knowles,  a  cool-headed, 
tireless  veteran  of  campaign  battles,  with  David 
acting  as  assistant  and  speech  maker. 

David  was  elected,  went  to  the  capital,  and 
was  honored  with  the  office  of  speaker  by  unan- 
imous vote.  He  had  his  plans  carefully  drawn 
for  the  election  of  Hume,  who  came  down  on 
the  regular  train  and  established  headquarters 
at  one  of  the  hotels,  surrounded  by  a  quiet  and 
determined  body  of  men. 

Wilksley's  supporters,  a  rollicking  lot,  had 
come  by  special  train  and  were  quartered  at  a 
club,  dispensing  champagne  and  greenbacks 
promiscuously  and  freely.  There  was  also  a 
a  third  candidate,  whose  backers  were  non-com- 
mittal, giving  no  intimation  as  to  where  their 
strength  would  go  in  case  their  candidate  did 
not  come  in  as  a  dark  horse. 

When  the  night  of  the  senatorial  contest  came 

193 

(13) 


DAVID   DUNNE 

the  floor,  galleries,  and  lobby  of  the  House  were 
crowded.  The  Judge,  M'ri,  and  Joe  were  there, 
Janey  remaining  home  with  her  father,  who 
refused  to  join  the  party. 

"Thar  '11  be  bigger  doin's  fer  me  to  see  Dave 
officiate  at,"  he  prophesied. 

The  quietly  humorous  young  man  wielding 
the  gavel  found  it  difficult  to  maintain  quiet  in 
the  midst  of  such  excitement,  but  he  finally 
evolved  order  from  chaos. 

Wilksley  was  the  first  candidate  nominated, 
a  gentleman  from  the  fourteenth  delivering  a 
bombastic  oration  in  pompous  periods,  accom- 
panied by  lofty  gestures.  He  was  followed  by 
an  understudy,  who  made  an  ineffective  effort 
to  support  his  predecessor. 

"A  ricochet  shot,"  commented  Joe.  "Wait 
till  Dave  hits  the  bullseye." 

The  supporting  representatives  of  the  dark 
horse  made  short,  forceful  speeches.  Then  fol- 
lowed a  brief  intermission,  while  David  called 
a  substitute  pro  tern  to  the  speaker's  desk.  He 
stepped  to  the  platform  to  make  the  nominating 
speech  for  Hume,  the  speech  for  which  every 

194 


DAVID   DUNNE 

one  was  waiting.  There  was  a  hush  of  expec- 
tancy, and  M'ri  felt  little  shivers  of  excitement 
creeping  down  her  spine  as  she  looked  up  at 
David,  dauntless,  earnest,  and  compelling,  as  he 
towered  above  them  all. 

In  its  simplicity,  its  ring  of  truth,  and  its 
weight  of  conviction,  his  speech  was  a  master- 
piece. 

"A  young  Patrick  Henry!"  murmured  the 
Judge. 

M'ri  made  no  comment,  for  in  that  flight  of  a 
second  that  intervened  between  David's  speech 
and  the  roar  of  tumultuous  applause,  she  had 
heard  a  voice,  a  young,  exquisite  voice,  murmur 
with  a  little  indrawn  breath,  "Oh,  David!" 

M'ri  turned  in  surprise,  and  looked  into  the 
confused  but  smiling  face  of  a  lovely  young  girl, 
who  said  frankly  and  impulsively:  "I  don't  know 
who  Mr.  Hume  may  be,  but  I  do  hope  he  wins." 

M'ri  smiled  in  sympathy,  trying  to  place  the 
resemblance.  Then  her  gaze  wandered  to  the 
man  beside  the  young  girl. 

"You  are  Carey  Winthrop!"  she  exclaimed, 

The  man  turned,  and  leaned  forward. 

195 


DAVID   DUNNE 

"Mrs.  Thorne,  this  is  indeed  a  pleasure,"  he 
said,  extending  his  hand. 

Joe  then  swung  his  chair  around  into  their 
vision. 

"Oh,  Joe!"  cried  the  young  girl  ecstatically. 
"And  where  is  Janey?" 

The  balloting  was  in  progress,  and  there  was 
opportunity  for  mutual  recalling  of  old  times. 
Then  suddenly  the  sibilant  sounds  dropped  to 
silence  as  the  result  was  announced.  Wilksley 
had  the  most  votes,  the  dark  horse  the  least; 
Hume  enjoyed  a  happy  medium,  with  fifteen 
more  to  his  count  than  forecast  by  the  man  be- 
hind the  button,  as  Joe  designated  Knowles. 

In  the  rush  of  action  from  the  delegates,  re- 
porters, clerks,  and  messengers,  the  place  resem- 
bled a  beehive.  Then  came  another  ballot  tak- 
ing. Hume  had  gained  ten  votes  from  the 
Wilksley  men  and  fifteen  from  the  dark  horse, 
but  still  lacked  the  requisite  number. 

From  the  little  retreat  where  Hume's  man- 
ager was  ensconsed,  with  his  hand  on  the  throt- 
tle, David  emerged.  He  looked  confident  and 
determined. 

196 


DAVID   DUNNE 

The  third  ballot  resulted  in  giving  Hume  the 
entire  added  strength  of  the  dark  horse,  and 
enough  votes  to  elect.  A  committee  was  there- 
upon appointed  to  bring  the  three  candidates  to 
the  House.  When  they  entered  and  were  es- 
corted to  the  platform  they  each  made  a  speech, 
and  then  formed  a  reception  line.  David 
stood  apart,  talking  to  one  of  the  members. 
He  was  beginning  to  feel  the  reaction  from 
the  long  strain  he  had  been  under  and  wished 
to  slip  away  from  the  crowd.  Suddenly  he 
heard  some  one  say: 

"Mr.  Speaker,  may  I  congratulate  you?" 


197 


CHAPTER  IV 

HE  turned  quickly,  his  heart  thrilling  at  the 
charm  in  the  voice,  low,  yet  resonant,  and 
sweet  with  a  lurking  suggestion  of  sadness. 

A  girl,  slender  and  delicately  made,  stood  be- 
fore him,  a  girl  with  an  exquisite  grace  and  a 
nameless  charm — the  something  that  lurks  in 
the  fragrance  of  the  violet.  Her  eyes  were  not 
the  quiet,  solemn  eyes  of  the  little  princess  of 
his  fairy  tales,  but  the  deep,  fathomless  eyes  of 
a  maiden. 

A  reminiscent  smile  stole  over  his  face. 

"The  little  princess!"  he  murmured,  taking 
her  hand. 

The  words  brought  a  flush  of  color  to  her  fair 
face. 

"The  prince  is  a  politician  now,"  she  re- 
plied. 

"The  prince  has  to  be  a  politician  to  fight 
for  his  kingdom.  Have  you  been  here  all  the 
evening?" 

198 


DAVID   DUNNE 

"Yes;  father  and  I  sat  with  your  party.  But 
you  were  altogether  too  absorbed  to  glance  our 
way." 

"Are  you  visiting  in  the  city?  Will  you  be 
here  long?" 

"For  to-night  only.  I  've  been  West  with 
father,  and  we  only  stopped  off  to  see  what  a 
senatorial  fight  was  like ;  also,  to  hear  you  speak. 
To-morrow  we  return  East,  and  then  mother 
and  I  shall  go  abroad.  Father,"  calling  to  Mr. 
Winthrop,  "I  am  renewing  my  acquaintance 
with  Mr.  Dunne." 

"I  wish  to  do  the  same,"  he  said,  extending 
his  hand  cordially.  "I  expect  to  be  able  to  tell 
people  some  day  that  I  used  to  fish  in  a  coun- 
try stream  with  the  governor  of  this  state  when 
he  was  a  boy." 

After  a  few  moments  of  general  conversa- 
tion they  all  left  the  statehouse  together. 

"Carey,"  said  Mr.  Winthrop,  "I  am  going 
with  the  Judge  to  the  club,  so  I  will  put  you  in 
David's  hands.  I  believe  you  have  no  afraid- 
ments  with  him." 

"That  has  come  to  be  a  household  phrase  with 

199 


DAVID   DUNNE 

us,"  she  laughed;   "but  you  forget,  father,  that 
Mr.  Dunne  has  official  duties." 

"If  you  only  knew,"  David  assured  her 
earnestly,  "how  thankful  I  am  for  a  re- 
lease from  them.  My  task  is  ended,  and  I  don't 
wish  to  celebrate  in  the  usual  and  political 
way." 

"There  is  a  big  military  ball  at  the  hotel,"  in- 
formed Joe.  "Mrs.  Thorne  and  I  thought  we 
would  like  to  go  and  look  on." 

"A  fine  idea,  Joe.  Maybe  you  would  like  to 
go?"  he  said  to  Carey,  trying  to  make  his  tone 
urgent. 

She  laughed  at  his  dismayed  expression. 

"No;  you  may  walk  to  the  Bradens'  with  me. 
We  could  n't  get  in  at  the  hotels,  and  father 
met  Major  Braden  on  the  street.  He  is  in- 
structor or  something  of  the  militia  of  this  state, 
and  has  gone  to  the  ball  with  his  wife.  They 
supposed  that  this  contest  would  last  far  into 
the  night,  so  they  planned  to  be  home  before  we 
were." 

"We  will  get  a  carriage  as  soon  as  we  are  out 
of  the  grounds." 

200 


DAVID   DUNNE 

"Have  you  come  to  carriages?"  she  asked, 
laughingly.  "You  used  to  say  if  you  could  n't 
ride  horseback,  or  walk,  you  would  stand 
still." 

"And  you  agreed  with  me  that  carriages  were 
only  for  the  slow,  the  stupid,  and  the  infirm," 
he  recalled.  "It 's  a  glorious  night.  Would 
you  rather  walk,  really?" 

"Really." 

At  the  entrance  to  the  grounds  they  parted 
from  the  others  and  went  up  one  of  the  many 
avenues  radiating  from  the  square. 

The  air  was  full  of  snowflakes,  moving  so 
softly  and  so  slowly  they  scarcely  seemed  to 
fall.  The  electric  lights  of  the  city  shone 
cheerfully  through  the  white  mist,  and  the  sound 
of  distant  mirthmakers  fell  pleasantly  on  the 
ear. 

"Snow  is  the  only  picture  part  of  winter,"  said 
Carey.  "Do  you  remember  the  story  of  the 
Snow  Princess?" 

"You  must  have  a  wonderful  memory!"  he 
exclaimed.  "You  were  only  six  years  old  when 
I  told  you  that  story." 

201 


DAVID   DUNNE 

"I  have  a  very  vivid  memory,"  she  replied. 
"Sometimes  it  almost  frightens  me." 

"Do  you  know,"  he  said,  "that  I  think  people 
that  have  dreams  and  fancies  do  look  backward 
farther  than  matter-of-fact  people,  who  let 
things  out  of  sight  go  out  of  mind?" 

"You  were  full  of  dreams  then,  but  I  don't 
believe  you  are  now.  Of  course,  politicians  have 
no  time  or  inclination  for  dreams." 

"No;  they  usually  have  a  dread  of  dreams. 
Would  you  rather  have  found  me  still  a 
dreamer?"  he  asked,  looking  down  into  her 
dark  eyes,  which  drooped  beneath  the  intensity 
of  his  gaze. 

Then  her  delicate  face,  misty  with  sweetness, 
turned  toward  him  again. 

"No ;  dreams  are  for  children  and  for  old  peo- 
ple, whose  memories,  like  their  eyes,  are  for 
things  far  off.  This  is  your  time  to  do  things, 
not  to  dream  them.  And  you  have  done  things. 
I  heard  Major  Braden  telling  father  about  you 
at  dinner — your  success  in  law,  your  getting  some 
bill  killed  in  the  legislature,  and  your  having 
been  to  South  America.    Father  says  you  have 

202 


DAVID   DUNNE 

lad  a  wonderful  career  for  a  young  man.  I 
used  to  think  when  I  was  a  little  girl  that  when 
you  were  a  grown-up  prince  you  would  kill  drag- 
ons and  bring  home  golden  fleeces." 

He  smiled  with  a  sudden  deep  throb  of  pleas- 
ure. Her  voice  stirred  him  with  a  sense  of 
magic. 

"This  is  the  Braden  home,"  she  said,  stopping 
before  a  big  house  that  seemed  to  be  all  pillars 
and  porches.  "You  '11  come  in  for  a  little 
while,  won't  you?" 

"I  '11  come  in,  if  I  may,  and  help  you  to  recall 
some  more  of  Maplewood  days." 

A  trim  little  maid  opened  the  door  and  led 
the  way  into  a  long  library  where  in  the  fireplace 
a  pine  backlog,  criscrossed  by  sturdy  forelogs  of 
birch  and  maple,  awaited  the  touch  of  a  match. 
It  was  given,  and  the  room  was  filled  with  a 
flaring  light  that  made  the  soft  lamplight  seem 
pale  and  feeble. 

"This  is  a  genuine  Brumble  fire,"  he  ex- 
claimed, as  they  sat  down  before  the  ruddy 
glow.  "It  carries  me  back  to  farm  life." 

"How  many  phases  of  life  you  have  seen," 

203 


DAVID    DUNNE 

mused  Carey.  "Country,  college,  city,  tropical, 
and  now  this  political  life.  Which  one  have  you 
really  enjoyed  the  most?" 

"My  life  in  the  Land  of  Dreams — that  beauti- 
ful Isle  of  Everywhere,"  he  replied. 

Her  eyes  grew  radiant  with  understanding. 

"You  are  not  so  very  much  changed  since  your 
days  of  dreaming,"  she  said,  smiling.  "To  be 
sure,  you  have  lost  your  freckles  and  you  don't 
kick  at  the  ground  when  you  walk,  and — " 

"And,"  he  reminded,  as  she  paused. 

"You  are  no  longer  twice  my  age." 

"Did  Janey  tell  you?" 

"Yes;  the  last  summer  I  was  at  Maplewood 
— the  summer  you  were  graduated.  You  say 
you  don't  dream  any  more,  but  it  was  n't  so  very 
long  ago  that  you  did,  else  how  could  you  have 
written  that  wonderful  book?" 

"Then  you  read  it?"  he  asked  eagerly. 

"Of  course  I  read  it." 

"All  of  it?" 

"Could  any  one  begin  it  and  not  finish  it? 
I  Ve  read  some  parts  of  it  many  times." 

"Did  you,"  he  asked  slowly,  holding  her  eyes 

204 


DAVID    DUNNE 

in  spite  of  her  desire  to  lower  them,  "read  the 
dedication?" 

And  by  their  subtle  confession  he  knew  that 
this  was  one  of  the  parts  she  had  read  "many 
times." 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  trying  to  speak  lightly,  but 
breathing  quickly,  "and  I  wondered  who  T.  L. 
P.  might  be." 

"And  so  you  didn't  know,"  in  slow,  disap- 
pointed tones,  "that  they  stood  for  the  name  I 
gave  you  when  I  first  met  you — the  name  by 
which  I  always  think  of  you?  It  was  with 
your  perfect  understanding  of  my  old  fancies 
in  mind  that  I  wrote  the  book.  And  so  I  dedi- 
cated it  to  you,  thinking  if  you  read  it  you  would 
know  even  without  the  inscription.  Some  one 
suggested — " 

"It  was  Fletcher,"  she  began. 

"Oh,  you  know  Wilder?" 

"Yes,  I  Ve  known  him  always.  He  has  told 
me  of  your  days  in  South  America  together  and 
how  he  told  you  to  dedicate  it.  And  he  won- 
dered who  T.  L.  P.  might  be." 

"And  you  never  guessed?" 

205 


DAVID   DUNNE 

Her  face,  bent  over  the  firelight,  looked  small 
and  white;  her  beautiful  eyes  were  fixed  and 
grave.  Then  suddenly  she  lifted  them  to  his  with 
the  artlessness  of  a  child. 

"I  did  know,"  she  confessed.  "At  least,  I 
hoped —  I  claimed  it  as  my  book,  anyway, 
but  I  thought  your  memory  of  those  summers 
at  the  farm  might  not  have  been  as  keen  as 
mine." 

"It  is  keen,"  he  replied.  "I  have  always 
thought  of  you  as  a  little  princess  who  only  lived 
in  my  dreams,  but,  hereafter,  you  are  not  only 
in  my  past  dreams,  but  I  hope,  in  my  future." 

"When  we  come  back — " 

"Will  you  be  gone  long?"  he  asked  wistfully. 
"Is  your  father — " 

"Father  can't  go,  but  he  may  join  us." 

After  a  moment's  hesitation  she  continued, 
with  a  slight  blush: 

"Fletcher  is  going  with  us." 

"Oh,"  he  said,  wondering  at  his  tinge  of  dis- 
appointment. 

"Carey,"  he  said  wistfully,  as  he  was  leaving, 
"don't  you  think  when  a  man  dedicates  a  book 

206 


DAVID    DUNNE 

to  a  girl,  and  they  both  have  a  joint  claim  on  a 
territory  known  as  the  Land  of  Dreams,  that 
she  might  call  him,  as  she  did  when  they  were 
boy  and  girl,  by  his  first  name?" 

"Yes,  David,"  she  replied  with  a  light  little 
laugh. 

The  music  of  the  soft  "a"  rang  entrancingly 
in  his  ears  as  he  walked  back  to  the  hotel. 


207 


CHAPTER  V 

THERE  was  but  one  important  measure  to 
deal  with  in  this  session  of  the  legislature, 
but  David's  penetration  into  a  thorough  under- 
standing of  each  bill,  and  the  patience  and  sagac- 
ity he  displayed  in  settling  all  disputes,  won  the 
approbation  of  even  doubtful  and  divided  fac- 
tions. He  flashed  a  new  fire  of  life  into  the  ebb- 
ing enthusiasm  of  his  followers,  whom  he  had  led 
to  victory  on  the  Griggs  Bill.  At  the  close  of  the 
session,  early  in  May,  he  was  presented  with  a 
set  of  embossed  resolutions  commending  his  ful- 
fillment of  his  duties. 

That  same  night,  in  his  room  at  the  hotel,  as 
he  was  packing  his  belongings,  he  was  waited 
upon  by  a  delegation  composed  alike  of  horny- 
handed  tillers  of  the  soil  and  distinguished  states- 
men. 

"We  come,  David,"  said  the  spokesman,  who 
had  been  chairman  of  the  county  convention, 
"to  say  that  you  are  our  choice  for  the  next 

208 


DAVID   DUNNE 

governor  of  this  state,  and  in  saying  this  we 
know  we  are  echoing  the  sentiment  of  the  Re- 
publican party.  In  fact,  we  are  looking  to  you 
as  the  only  man  who  can  bring  that  party  to 
victory." 

He  said  many  more  things,  flattering  and 
echoed  by  his  followers.  It  made  the  blood  tin- 
gle in  David's  veins  to  know  that  these  men  of 
plain,  honest,  country  stock,  like  himself,  be- 
lieved in  him  and  in  his  honor.  In  kaleidoscopic 
quickness  there  passed  in  review  his  life, — the 
days  when  he  and  his  mother  had  struggled  with 
a  wretched  poverty  that  the  neighbors  had  only 
half  suspected,  the  first  turning  point  in  his  lif  e, 
when  he  was  taken  unto  the  hearth  and  home  of 
strong-hearted  people,  his  years  at  college,  the 
plodding  days  in  pursuit  of  the  law,  his  hotly 
waged  fight  in  the  legislature,  and  his  short  lit- 
erary career,  and  he  felt  a  surging  of  boyish 
pride  at  the  knowledge  that  he  was  now  ap- 
proaching his  goal. 

The  next  morning  David  went  to  Laff erton  in 
order  to  discuss  the  road  to  the  ruling  of  the 
people. 

209 

(14) 


DAVID   DUNNE 

"Whom  would  you  suggest  for  manager  of 
my  campaign,  Uncle  Barnabas?"  he  asked. 

"Knowles  came  to  me  and  offered  his  services. 
Could  n't  have  a  slicker  man,  Dave." 

"None  better  in  the  state.  I  shouldn't  have 
ventured  to  ask  him." 

Janey  was  home  for  the  summer,  and  on  the 
first  evening  of  his  return  she  and  David  sat  to- 
gether on  the  porch. 

"Oh,  Davey,"  she  said  with  a  little  sob,  "Jud 
has  come  home  again,  and  they  say  he  is  n't 
just  wild  any  more,  but  thoroughly  bad." 

The  tears  in  her  eyes  and  the  tremor  in  her 
tone  stirred  all  his  old  protective  instinct  for 
her. 

"Poor  Jud!  I  '11  see  if  I  can't  awaken  some 
ambition  in  him  for  a  different  life." 

"You  've  been  very  patient,  Davey,  but  do  try 
again.  Every  one  is  down  on  him  now  but 
father  and  you  and  me.  Aunt  M'ri  has  let  the 
Judge  prejudice  her;  Joe  hasn't  a  particle  of 
patience  with  him,  and  he  can't  understand  how 
I  can  have  any,  but  you  do,  Davey.  You  un- 
derstand everything." 

210 


DAVID   DUNNE 

They  sat  in  silence,  watching  the  stars  pierce 
vividly  through  the  blackness  of  the  sky,  and 
presently  his  thoughts  strayed  from  Jud  and 
from  his  fair  young  sister.  In  fancy  he  saw  the 
queenly  carriage  of  an  imperious  little  head,  the 
mystery  lurking  in  a  pair  of  purple  eyes,  and 
heard  the  cadence  in  an  exquisite  voice. 

The  next  morning  he  began  the  fight,  and  there 
was  an  incessant  cannonade  from  start  to  fin- 
ish against  the  upstart  boy  nominee,  who  proved 
to  be  an  adversary  of  unremitting  activity,  the 
tact  and  experience  of  Knowles  making  a  forti- 
fied intrenchment  for  him.  All  of  David's 
friends  rallied  strongly  to  his  support.  Hume 
came  from  Washington,  Joe  from  the  ranch,  and 
Wilder  from  the  East,  his  father  having  a  branch 
concern  in  the  state. 

Through  the  long,  hot  summer  the  warfare 
waged,  and  by  mid-autumn  it  seemed  a  neck  and 
neck  contest — a  contest  so  susceptible  that  the 
merest  breath  might  turn  the  tide  at  any  mo- 
ment. The  week  before  the  election  found  Da- 
vid still  resolute,  grim,  and  determined.  Instead 
of  being  discouraged  by  adverse  attacks  he  had 

211 


DAVID   DUNNE 

gained  new  vigor  from  each  downthrow.  All 
forces  rendezvoused  at  the  largest  city  in  the 
state  for  the  final  engagement. 

Three  days  before  election  he  received  a  note 
in  a  handwriting  that  had  become  familiar  to 
him  during  the  past  year.  With  a  rush  of  sur- 
prise and  pleasure  he  noted  the  city  postmark. 
The  note  was  very  brief,  merely  mentioning  the 
hotel  at  which  they  were  stopping  and  asking 
him  to  call  if  he  could  spare  a  few  moments  from 
his  campaign  work. 

In  an  incredibly  short  time  after  the  receipt 
of  this  note  he  was  at  the  hotel,  awaiting  an  an- 
swer to  his  card.  He  was  shown  to  the  sitting 
room  of  the  suite,  and  Carey  opened  the  door 
to  admit  him.  This  was  not  the  little  princess 
of  his  dreams,  nor  the  charming  young  girl  who 
had  talked  so  ingenuously  with  him  before  the 
Braden  fireside.  This  was  a  woman,  stately  yet 
gracious,  vigorous  yet  exquisite. 

"I  am  glad  we  came  home  in  time  to  see  you 
elected,"  she  said.  "It  is  a  great  honor,  David, 
to  be  the  governor  of  your  state." 

There  was  a  shade  of  deference  in  her  manner 

212 


DAVID   DUNNE 

to  him  which  he  realized  was  due  to  the  awe  with 
which  she  regarded  the  dignity  of  his  elective  of- 
fice.   This  amused  while  it  appealed  to  him. 

"We  are  on  our  way  to  California  to  spend 
the  winter,"  she  replied,  in  answer  to  his  eager 
question,  "and  father  proposed    stopping  here 


id  out  of  my  life  like  a  comet," 
:fuUy. 

came  in,  smiling  and  charm- 

ms  very  cordial  to  David,  and 

[campaign,  but  it  seemed  to 

a  little  too  gracious,  as  if 
*ess  him  with  the  fact  that  it 

meet  him  on  an  equal  social 
!.  Winthrop  was  inclined  to  be 

lly. 

ed  at  an  auspicious  time,"  he 
night  the  Democrats  will  have 
i  ever  scheduled  for  *^is  city, 
rnd-up." 

"Oh,  is  Joe  here?"  asked  Carey  eagerly. 

"Yes;  and  another  friend  of  yours,  Fletcher 
Wilder." 

213 


DAVID   DUNNE 

gained  new  vigor  from  each  downthrow.  All 
forces  rendezvoused  at  the  largest  city  in  the 
state  for  the  final  engagement. 

Three  days  before  election  he  received  a  note 
in  a  handwriting  that  had  become  familiar  to 
him  during  the  past  year.    With  a  rush  of  sur- 
prise and  pleasure  he  noted  1 
The  note  was  very  brief,  mer< 
hotel  at  which  they  were  sto 
him  to  call  if  he  could  spare  a  : 
his  campaign  work. 

In  an  incredibly  short  tim< 
of  this  note  he  was  at  the  hot 
swer  to  his  card.  He  was  sh 
room  of  the  suite,  and  Care; 
to  admit  him.  This  was  not 
of  his  dreams,  nor  the  charmi 
had  talked  so  ingenuously  w 
Braden  fireside.  This  was  a 
gracious,  vigorous  yet  exquis: 

"I  am  glad  we  came  homeTir  mrrc  to-occtw- 
elected,"  she  said.    "It  is  a  great  honor,  David, 
to  be  the  governor  of  your  state." 

There  was  a  shade  of  deference  in  her  manner 

212 


DAVID   DUNNE 

to  him  which  he  realized  was  due  to  the  awe  with 
which  she  regarded  the  dignity  of  his  elective  of- 
fice.   This  amused  while  it  appealed  to  him. 

"We  are  on  our  way  to  California  to  spend 
the  winter,"  she  replied,  in  answer  to  his  eager 
question,  "and  father  proposed  stopping  here 
until  after  election." 

"You  come  in  and  out  of  nay  life  like  a  comet," 
he  complained  wistfully. 

Mrs.  Winthrop  came  in,  smiling  and  charm- 
ing as  ever.  She  was  very  cordial  to  David,  and 
interested  in  his  campaign,  but  it  seemed  to 
him  that  she  was  a  little  too  gracious,  as  if 
she  wished  to  impress  him  with  the  fact  that  it 
was  a  concession  to  meet  him  on  an  equal  social 
footing.  For  Mrs.  Winthrop  was  inclined  to  be 
of  the  world,  worldly. 

"You  have  arrived  at  an  auspicious  time,"  he 
assured  her.  "To-night  the  Democrats  will  have 
the  biggest  parade  ever  scheduled  for  ^?is  city. 
Joe  calls  it  the  round-up." 

"Oh,  is  Joe  here?"  asked  Carey  eagerly. 

"Yes;  and  another  friend  of  yours,  Fletcher 
Wilder." 

213 


DAVID    DUNNE 

"I  knew  that  he  was  here,"  she  said,  with  an 
odd  little  smile. 

"We  had  expected  to  see  him  in  New  York, 
and  were  surprised  to  learn  he  was  out  here," 
said  Mrs.  Winthrop. 

"He  came  to  help  me  in  my  campaign,"  in- 
formed David. 

"Fletcher  interested  in  politics!  How 
strange!" 

"His  interest  is  purely  personal.  We  were 
together  in  South  America,  you  know." 

"I  am  glad  that  you  have  a  friend  in  him," 
said  Mrs.  Winthrop  affably.  "The  parade  will 
pass  here,  and  Fletcher  is  coming  up,  of  course. 
Why  not  come  up,  too,  if  you  can  spare  the 
time?" 

"This  is  not  my  night,"  laughed  David.  "It 's 
purely  and  simply  a  Democratic  night.  I  shall 
be  pleased  to  come." 

"Bring  Joe,  too,"  reminded  Carey. 

When  Mr.  Winthrop  came  in  David  had  no 
doubt  as  to  the  welcome  he  received  from  the 
head  of  the  family. 

"A  man's  measure  of  a  man,"  thought  David, 

214 


DAVID   DUNNE 

"is  easily  taken,  and  by  natural  laws,  but  oh,  for 
an  understanding  of  the  scales  by  which  women 
weigh!  And  yet  it  is  they  who  hold  the  bal- 
ance." 

"Fletcher  and  David  and  Joe  are  coming  to- 
night to  watch  the  parade  from  here,"  said 
Carey. 

"You  shall  all  dine  with  us,"  said  Mr.  Win- 
throp. 

"Thank  you,"  replied  David,  "but—" 

"Oh,  but  you  must,"  insisted  Mrs.  Winthrop, 
who  always  warmly  seconded  any  proffer  of  hos- 
pitality made  by  her  husband.  "Fletcher  will 
dine  with  us,  of  course.  We  can  have  a  little 
dinner  served  here  in  our  rooms.  Write  a  note 
to  Mr.  Forbes,  Carey." 

The  marked  difference  in  type  of  her  three 
guests  as  they  entered  the  sitting  room  that  night 
struck  Mrs.  Winthrop  forcibly.  Joe,  lean  and 
brown,  with  laughing  eyes,  was  the  typical  fron- 
tiersman; Fletcher,  quiet  and  substantial  look- 
ing, with  his  air  of  culture  and  ease  and  his  mod- 
ulated voice,  was  the  type  of  a  city  man;  David — 
"What  a  man  he  is !"  she  was  forced  to  admit  as 

215 


DAVID   DUNNE 

he  stood,  head  uplifted  in  the  white  glare  under 
the  chandelier,  the  brilliant  light  shining  upon 
his  dark  hair,  and  his  eyes  glowing  like  stars.  His 
lithe  figure,  perfect  in  poise  and  balance,  of  virile 
strength  that  was  toil-proof,  wore  the  look  of 
the  outdoor  life.  His  smile  banished  everything 
that  was  ordinary  from  his  face  and  transmuted 
it  into  a  glowing  personality.  His  eyes,  serious 
with  that  insight  of  the  observer  who  knows 
what  is  going  on  without  and  within,  were  clear 
and  steady. 

The  table  was  laid  for  six  in  the  sitting  room, 
the  flowers  and  candles  giving  it  a  homelike 
look. 

As  Mrs.  Winthrop  listened  to  the  conversation 
between  her  husband  and  David  she  was  forced 
to  admit  that  the  young  candidate  for  governor 
was  a  man  of  mark. 

"I  never  knew  a  man  without  good  birth  to 
have  such  perfect  breeding,"  she  thought.  "He 
really  appears  as  well  as  Fletcher,  and,  well,  of 
course,  he  has  more  temperament.  If  he  could 
have  been  born  on  a  different  plane,"  thinking 
of  her  long  line  of  Virginia  ancestors. 

216 


DAVID   DUNNE 

She  had  ceded  a  great  deal  to  her  husband's 
and  Carey's  democracy,  and  reserved  many  an 
unfavorable  criticism  of  their  friends  and  their 
friends'  ways  with  a  tactfulness  that  had  blinded 
their  eyes  to  her  true  feelings.  Yet  David  knew 
instinctively  her  standpoint ;  she  partly  suspected 
that  he  knew,  and  the  knowledge  did  not  disturb 
her;  she  intuitively  gauged  his  pride,  and  wel- 
comed it,  for  a  suitor  of  the  Fletcher  Wilder  sta- 
tion of  life  was  more  to  her  liking. 

Carey  led  David  away  from  her  father's  po- 
litical discourse,  and  encouraged  him  to  give 
reminiscences  of  old  days.  Joe  told  a  few  in- 
imitable western  stories,  and  before  the  cozy  lit- 
tle meal  was  finished  Mrs.  Winthrop,  though 
against  her  will,  was  feeling  the  compelling  force 
of  David's  winning  sweetness.  The  sound  of  a 
distant  band  hurried  them  from  the  table  to  the 
balcony. 

"They  've  certainly  got  a  fair  showing  of  float- 
ing banners  and  transformations,"  said  Joe. 

As  the  procession  came  nearer  the  face  of  the 
hardy  ranchman  flushed  crimson  and  his  eyes 
flashed  dangerously.    He  made  a  quick  motion 

217 


DAVID   DUNNE 

as  if  to  obstruct  David's  vision,  but  the  young 
candidate  had  already  seen.  He  stood  as  if  at 
bay,  his  face  pale,  his  eyes  riveted  on  those  float- 
ing banners  which  bore  in  flaming  letters  the  in- 
scriptions : 

"The  father  of  David  Dunne  died  in  state 
prison!" 

"His  mother  was  a  washerwoman!" 


218 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  others  were  stricken  into  shocked  si- 
lence which  they  were  too  stunned  for  the 
moment  to  break.  It  was  Fletcher  who  recov- 
ered first,  but  then  Fletcher  was  the  only  one 
present  who  did  not  know  that  the  words  had 
struck  home. 

"We  must  n't  wait  another  moment,  David," 
he  said  emphatically,  "to  get  out  sweeping  de- 
nials and — " 

"We  can't,"  said  David  wearily.    "It  is  true." 

"Oh,"  responded  Fletcher  lamely. 

There  was  another  silence.  Something  in 
David's  voice  and  manner  had  made  the  silence 
still  more  constrained. 

"I  '11  go  down  and  smash  their  banners!"  mut- 
tered Joe,  who  had  not  dared  to  look  in  David's 
direction. 

Mr.  Winthrop  restrained  him. 

"The  matter  will  take  care  of  itself,"  he  coun- 
seled. 

219 


DAVID   DUNNE 

It  is  mercifully  granted  that  the  intensity  of 
present  suffering  is  not  realized.  Only  in  look- 
ing back  comes  the  pang,  and  the  wonder  at  the 
seemingly  passive  endurance. 

Again  David's  memory  was  bridging  the  past 
to  unveil  that  vivid  picture  of  the  patient-eyed 
woman  bending  over  the  tub,  and  the  pity  for  her 
was  hurting  him  more  than  the  cruel  banner  which 
was  flaunting  the  fact  before  a  jeering,  applaud- 
ing crowd. 

Mrs.  Winthrop  gave  him  a  covert  glance.  She 
had  great  pride  in  her  lineage,  and  her  well-laid 
plans  for  her  daughter's  future  did  not  include 
David  Dunne  in  their  scope,  but  she  was  ever 
responsive  to  distress. 

Before  the  look  in  his  eyes  every  sensation 
save  that  of  sympathy  left  her,  and  she  went  to 
him  as  she  would  have  gone  to  a  child  of  her  own 
that  had  been  hurt. 

"David,"  she  said  tenderly,  laying  her  hand  on 
his  arm,  "any  woman  in  the  world  might  be  glad 
to  take  in  washing  to  bring  up  a  boy  to  be  such 
a  man  as  you  are!" 

Deeply  moved  and  surprised,  he  looked  into 

220 


DAVID    DUNNE 

her  brimming  eyes  and  met  there  the  look  he  had 
sometimes  seen  in  the  eyes  of  his  mother,  of  M'ri, 
and  once  in  the  eyes  of  Janey.  Moved  by  an 
irresistible  impulse,  he  stooped  and  kissed  her. 

The  situation  was  relieved  of  its  tenseness. 

"I  think,  Joe,"  said  David,  speaking  collect- 
edly, "we  had  better  go  to  headquarters. 
Knowles  will  be  looking  for  me." 

"Sure,"  assented  Joe,  eager  to  get  into  action. 

"Carey,"  said  David  in  a  low  voice,  as  he  was 
leaving. 

As  she  turned  to  him,  an  impetuous  rush  of 
new  life  leaped  torrent-like  in  his  heart.  Her 
eyes  met  his  slowly,  and  for  a  moment  he  felt 
a  pleasure  acute  with  the  exquisiteness  of  pain. 
Such  sensations  are  usually  transient,  and  in  an- 
other moment  he  had  himself  well  in  hand. 

"I  want  to  say  good  night,"  he  said  quietly, 
"and—" 

"Will  you  come  here  to-morrow  at  eleven?" 
she  asked  hurriedly.  "There  is  something  I  want 
to  say  to  you." 

"I  know  that  you  are  sorry  for  me." 

"That  is  n't  what  I  mean  to  say." 

221 


DAVID   DUNNE 

A  wistful  but  imperious  message  was  flashed 
to  him  from  her  eyes. 

"I  will  come,"  he  replied  gravely. 

When  he  reached  headquarters  he  found 
the  committee  dismayed  and  distracted.  Like 
Wilder,  they  counseled  a  sweeping  denial,  but 
David  was  firm. 

"It  is  true,"  he  reiterated. 

"It  will  cost  us  the  vote  of  a  certain  element," 
predicted  the  chairman,  "and  we  have  n't  one  to 
spare." 

David  listened  to  a  series  of  similar  sentiments 
until  Knowles — a  new  Knowles — came  in.  The 
usual  blank  placidity  of  his  face  was  rippled  by 
radiant  exultation. 

"David,"  he  announced,  "before  that  parade 
started  to-night  I  had  made  out  another  con- 
servative estimate,  and  thought  I  could  pull  you 
through  by  a  slight  majority.  Now,  it 's  differ- 
ent. While  you  may  lose  some  votes  from  the 
'near-silk  stocking'  class,  yet  for  every  vote  so 
lost  hundreds  will  rally  to  you.  That  all  men 
are  created  equal  is  still  a  truth  held  to  be 
self-evident.      The    spark    of    the    spirit    that 

%%% 


DAVID   DUNNE 

prompted  the  Declaration  of  Independence  is 
always  ready  to  be  fanned  to  a  flame,  and  the 
Democrats  have  furnished  us  the  fans  in  their 
flying  pennants." 

David  found  no  balm  in  this  argument.  All 
the  wounds  in  his  heart  were  aching,  and  he  could 
not  bring  his  thoughts  to  majorities.  He  passed 
a  night  of  nerve-racking  strain.  The  jeopardy 
of  election  did  not  concern  him.  That  night  at 
the  dinner  party  he  had  realized  that  he  had  a 
formidable  rival  in  Fletcher,  who  had  a  place 
firmly  fixed  in  the  Winthrop  household.  Still, 
against  odds,  he  had  determined  to  woo  and  win 
Carey. 

He  had  thought  to  tell  her  of  his  father's 
imprisonment  under  softening  influences.  To 
have  it  flashed  ruthlessly  upon  her  in  such  a  way, 
and  at  such  a  time,  made  him  shrink  from  asking 
her  to  link  her  fate  with  his,  and  he  decided  to 
put  her  resolutely  out  of  his  lif e. 

Unwillingly,  he  went  to  keep  his  appointment 
with  her  the  next  morning.  He  also  dreaded  an 
encounter  with  Mrs.  Winthrop.  He  felt  that 
the  reaction  from  her  moment  of  womanly  pity 

223 


DAVID   DUNNE 

would  strand  her  still  farther  on  the  rocks  of  her 
worldliness.  He  was  detained  on  his  way  to  the 
hotel  so  that  it  was  nearly  twelve  when  he  ar- 
rived. It  was  a  relief  to  find  Carey  alone.  There 
was  an  appealing  look  in  her  eyes ;  but  David  felt 
that  he  could  bear  no  expression  of  sympathy, 
and  he  trusted  she  would  obey  the  subtle  mes- 
sage flashed  from  his  own. 

With  keen  insight  she  read  his  unspoken  ap- 
peal, but  a  high  courage  dwelt  in  the  spirit  of 
the  little  Puritan  of  colonial  ancestry,  and  she 
summoned  its  full  strength. 

"David,"  she  asked,  "did  you  think  I  was  ig- 
norant of  your  early  life  until  I  read  those  ban- 
ners last  night?" 

"I  thought,"  he  said,  flushing  and  taken  by 
surprise,  "that  you  might  have  long  ago  heard 
something,  but  to  have  it  recalled  in  so  sensa- 
tional a  way  when  you  were  entertaining  me  at 
dinner — " 

"David,  the  first  day  I  met  you,  when  I  was 
six  years  old,  Mrs.  Randall  told  us  of  your  father. 
I  did  n't  know  just  what  a  prison  was,  but  I  sup- 
posed it  something  very  grand,  and  it  widened 

224 


"It  was  a  relief  to  find  Carey  alone" 


DAVID   DUNNE 

the  halo  of  romance  that  my  childish  eyes  had 
cast  about  you.  The  morning  after  you  had  nom- 
inated Mr.  Hume  I  saw  your  aunt  at  the  hotel, 
and  she  told  me,  for  she  said  some  day  I  might 
hear  it  from  strangers  and  not  understand. 
When  I  saw  those  banners  it  was  not  so  much 
sympathy  for  you  that  distressed  me ;  I  was  think- 
ing of  your  mother,  and  regretting  that  she  could 
not  be  alive  to  hear  you  speak,  and  see  what  her 
bravery  had  done  for  you." 

David  had  to  summon  all  his  control  and  his 
recollection  of  her  Virginia  ancestors  to  refrain 
from  telling  her  what  was  in  his  heart.  Mrs. 
Winthrop  helped  him  by  her  entrance  at  this  cru- 
cial point. 

"Good  morning,  David,"  she  said  suavely. 
"Carey,  Fletcher  is  waiting  for  you  at  the  ele- 
vator. Your  father  stopped  him.  I  told  him 
you  would  be  out  directly." 

"I  had  an  engagement  to  drive  with  him,"  ex- 
plained Carey.  "I  thought  you  would  come 
earlier." 

"I  am  due  at  a  committee  meeting,"  he  said,  in 
a  courteous  but  aloof  manner. 

225 

(15) 


DAVID   DUNNE 

"We  start  in  the  morning,  you  know,"  she 
reminded  him.  "Won't  you  dine  here  with  us 
to-night?" 

"I  am  sorry,"  he  refused.  "It  will  be  impossi- 
ble." 

"Arthur  is  going  to  a  club  for  luncheon,"  said 
Mrs.  Winthrop,  when  Carey  had  gone  into  the 
adjoining  room,  "and  I  shall  be  alone  unless  you 
will  take  pity  on  my  loneliness.  I  won't  detain 
you  a  moment  after  luncheon." 

"Thank  you,"  he  replied  abstractedly. 

She  smiled  at  the  reluctance  in  his  eyes. 

"David  is  going  to  stay  to  luncheon  with  me," 
she  announced  to  Carey  as  she  came  into  the  sit- 
ting room. 

David  winced  at  the  huge  bunch  of  violets 
fastened  to  her  muff.  He  remembered  with  a 
pang  that  Fletcher  had  left  him  that  morning 
to  go  to  a  florist's.  After  she  had  gone  Mrs. 
Winthrop  turned  suddenly  toward  him,  as  he 
was  gazing  wistfully  at  the  closed  door. 

"David,"  she  asked  directly,  "why  did  you  re- 
fuse our  invitation  to  dine  to-night?" 

"Why — you    see — Mrs.    Winthrop — with    so 

226 


DAVID   DUNNE 

many  engagements — there  is  a  factory  meeting 
at  five—" 

"David,  you  are  floundering!  That  is  not  like 
the  frankly  spoken  boy  we  used  to  know  at  Ma- 
plewood.  I  kept  you  to  luncheon  to  tell  you 
some  news  that  even  Carey  does  n't  know  yet. 
Mrs.  Randall  has  written  insisting  that  we  spend 
a  week  at  Maplewood  before  we  go  West.  As 
we  are  in  no  special  haste,  I  shall  accept  her  hos- 
pitality." 

David  made  no  reply,  and  she  continued: 

"You  are  going  home  the  day  before  election?" 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Winthrop,"  he  replied. 

"We  will  go  down  with  you,  and  I  hope  you 
will  be  neighborly  while  we  are  in  the  country." 

The  bewildered  look  in  his  eyes  deepened,  and 
then  a  heartrending  solution  of  her  graciousness 
came  to  him.  Fletcher  and  Carey  were  doubt- 
less engaged,  and  this  fact  made  Mrs.  Winthrop 
feel  secure  in  extending  hospitality  to  him. 

"Thank  you,  Mrs.  Winthrop,"  he  said,  a  little 
bitterly.     "You  are  very  kind." 

"David,"  she  asked,  giving  him  a  searching 
look.     "What  is  the  matter?     I    thought    you 

227 


DAVID   DUNNE 

would  be  pleased  at  the  thought  of  our  spending 
a  week  among  you  all." 

He  made  a  quick,  desperate  decision. 

"Mrs.  Winthrop,"  he  asked  earnestly,  "may  I 
speak  to  you  quite  openly  and  honestly?" 

"David  Dunne,  you  could  n't  speak  any  other 
way,"  she  asserted,  with  a  gay  little  laugh. 

"I  love  Carey!" 


228 


CHAPTER  VII 

THIS  information  seemingly  conveyed  no 
startling  intelligence. 

"Well,"  replied  Mrs.  Winthrop,  evidently 
awaiting  a  further  statement. 

"I  haven't  tried  to  win  her  love,  nor  have  I 
told  her  that  I  love  her,  because  I  knew  that  in 
your  plans  for  her  future  you  had  never  included 
me.  I  know  what  you  think  about  family,  and  I 
don't  want  to  make  ill  return  for  the  courtesy 
and  kindness  you  and  Mr.  Winthrop  have  always 
shown  me." 

"David,  you  have  one  rare  trait — gratitude.  I 
did  have  plans  for  Carey — plans  built  on  the  basis 
of  'family';  but  I  have  learned  from  you  that 
there  are  other  things,  like  the  trait  I  mentioned, 
for  instance,  that  count  more  than  lineage.  Be- 
fore we  went  abroad  I  knew  Carey  was  inter- 
ested in  you,  with  the  first  flutter  of  a  young  girl's 
fancy,  and  I  was  secretly  antagonistic  to  that 
feeling.     But  last  night,  David,  I  came  to  feel 

229 


DAVID   DUNNE 

differently.  I  envied  your  mother  when  I  read 
those  banners.  If  I  had  a  son  like  you,  I  'd  feel 
honored  to  take  in  washing  or  anything  else  for 
him." 

At  the  look  of  ineffable  sadness  in  his  eyes  her 
tears  came. 

"David,"  she  said  gently,  after  a  pause,  "if 
you  can  win  Carey's  love,  I  shall  gladly  give  my 
consent." 

He  thanked  her  incoherently,  and  was  seized 
with  an  uncontrollable  longing  to  get  away — to 
be  alone  with  this  great,  unbelievable  happiness. 
In  realization  of  his  mood,  she  left  him  under 
pretext  of  ordering  the  luncheon.  On  her 
return  she  found  him  exuberant,  in  a  flow  of 
spirits  and  pleasantry. 

"Mrs.  Winthrop,"  he  said  earnestly,  as  he  was 
taking  his  departure,  "I  am  not  going  to  tell 
Carey  just  yet  that  I  love  her." 

"As  you  wish,  David.  I  shall  not  mention  our 
conversation." 

She  smiled  as  the  door  closed  upon  him. 

"Tell  her!  I  wonder  if  he  does  n't  know  that 
every  time  he  looks  at  her,  or  speaks  her  name, 

230 


DAVID   DUNNE 

he  tells  her.  But  I  suppose  he  has  some  fool- 
ish mannish  pride  about  waiting  until  he  is 
governor." 

When  David,  in  a  voice  vibrant  with  new- 
found gladness,  finished  an  eloquent  address  to 
a  United  Band  of  Workmen,  he  found  Mr.  Win- 
throp  waiting  for  him. 

"I  was  sent  to  bring  you  to  the  hotel  to  dine 
with  us,  David.  My  wife  told  me  of  your  con- 
versation." 

Noting  the  look  of  apprehension  in  David's 
eyes,  he  continued: 

"Every  time  a  suitor  for  Carey  has  crossed  our 
threshold  I  've  turned  cold  at  the  thought  of  re- 
linquishing my  guardianship.  With  you  it  is  dif- 
ferent; I  can  only  quote  Carey's  childish  remark 
— 'with  David  I  would  have  no  afraidments.'  " 

A  touch  upon  his  shoulder  prevented  David's 
reply.    He  turned  to  find  Joe  and  Fletcher. 

"Knowles  has  been  looking  for  you  every- 
where. He  wants  you  to  come  to  headquarters 
at  once." 

"Is  it  important?"  asked  David  hesitatingly. 

"Important !    Knowles !    Say,  David,  have  you 

231 


DAVID   DUNNE 

forgotten  that  you  are  running  for  governor?" 

Winthrop  laughed  appreciatively. 

"Go  back  to  Knowles,  David,  and  come  to  us 
when  you  can.  We  have  no  iron-clad  rules  as  to 
hours.  Go  with  him,  Joe,  to  be  sure  he  does  n't 
forget  where  he  is  going.  Come  with  me, 
Fletcher." 

"It 's  too  late  to  call  now,"  remonstrated  Joe, 
when  David  had  finally  made  his  escape  from 
headquarters. 

David  muttered  that  time  was  made  for  slaves, 
and  increased  his  pace.  When  they  reached  the 
hotel  Joe  refused  to  go  to  the  Winthrop's  apart- 
ment. 

David  found  Carey  alone  in  the  sitting  room. 

"David,"  she  asked,  after  one  glance  into  his 
eyes,  "what  has  changed  you?  Good  news  from 
Mr.  Knowles?" 

"No,  Carey,"  he  replied,  his  eyes  growing  lu- 
minous. "It  was  something  your  mother  said  to 
me  this  morning." 

"Oh,  I  am  glad.    What  was  it  she  said?" 

"She  told  me,"  he  evaded,  "that  you  were  go- 
ing to  visit  the  Randalls." 

232 


DAVID   DUNNE 

"And  that  is  what  makes  you  look  so — 
cheered?"  she  persisted. 

"No,  Carey.  May  I  tell  you  at  two  o'clock  in 
the  afternoon,  the  day  after  election?" 

She  laughed  delightedly. 

"That  sounds  like  our  childhood  days.  You 
used  to  put  notes  in  the  old  apple  tree — do  you 
remember? — asking  Janey  and  me  to  meet  you 
two  hours  before  sundown  at  the  end  of  the  picket 
fence." 

Further  confidential  conversation  was  pre- 
vented by  the  entrance  of  the  others.  Joe  had 
been  captured,  and  Mrs.  Winthrop  had  ordered 
a  supper  served  in  the  rooms. 

"Carey,"  asked  her  mother  softly,  when  they 
were  alone  that  night,  "did  David  tell  you  what 
a  cozy  little  luncheon  we  had?" 

"He  told  me,  mother,  that  you  said  something 
to  him  that  made  him  very  happy,  but  he  would 
not  tell  me  what  it  was." 

Something  in  her  mother's  gaze  made  Carey 
lift  her  violets  as  a  shield  to  her  face. 

"She  knows!"  thought  Mrs.  Winthrop.  "Sut 
does  she  care?" 

233 


CHAPTER  VIII 

AT  two  o'clock  on  the  day  after  David  Dunne 
had  been  elected  governor  by  an  overwhelm- 
ing majority,  he  reined  up  at  the  open  gate  at  the 
end  of  the  maple  drive.  His  heart  beat  faster  at 
the  sight  of  the  regal  little  figure  awaiting  him. 
Her  coat,  furs,  and  hat  were  all  of  white. 

He  helped  her  into  the  carriage  and  seated  him- 
self beside  her. 

"Have  you  been  waiting  long,  and  are  you 
dressed  quite  warmly?"  he  asked  anxiously. 

"Yes,  indeed;  I  thought  you  might  keep  me 
waiting  at  the  gate,  so  I  put  on  my  furs." 

The  drive  went  on  through  the  grounds  to  a 
sloping  pasture,  where  it  became  a  rough  road- 
way. The  day  was  perfect.  The  sharp  edges 
of  November  were  tempered  by  a  bright  sun,  and 
the  crisp  air  was  possessed  of  a  profound  quiet. 
When  the  pastoral  stretches  ended  in  the  woods, 
David  stopped  suddenly. 

"It  must  have  been  just  about  here,"  he  said, 

234 


DAVID   DUNNE 

reminiscently,  as  he  hitched  the  horse  to  a  tree 
and  held  out  his  hand  to  Carey.  They  walked  on 
into  the  depths  of  the  woods  until  they  came  to 
a  fallen  tree. 

"Let  us  sit  here,"  he  suggested. 

She  obeyed  in  silence. 

An  early  frost  had  snatched  the  glory  from 
the  trees,  whose  few  brown  and  sere  leaves  hung 
disconsolately  on  the  branches.  High  above  them 
was  an  occasional  skirmishing  line  of  wild 
ducks.  The  deep  stillness  was  broken  only  by 
the  scattering  of  nuts  the  scurrying  squirrels 
were  harvesting,  by  the  cry  of  startled  wood 
birds,  or  by  the  wistful  note  of  a  solitary,  dis- 
tant quail. 

"Do  you  remember  that  other — that  first  day 
we  came  here?"  he  asked. 

She  glanced  up  at  him  quickly. 

"Is  this  really  the  place  where  we  came  and 
you  told  me  stories?" 

"You  were  only  six  years  old,"  he  reminded 
her.  "It  does  n't  seem  possible  that  you  should 
remember." 

"It  was  the  first  time  I  had  ever  been  in  any 

235 


DAVID   DUNNE 

kind  of  woods,"  she  explained,  "and  it  was  the 
first  time  I  had  ever  played  with  a  grown-up  boy. 
For  a  long  time  afterward,  when  I  teased  mother 
for  a  story,  she  would  tell  me  of  'The  Day  Carey 
Met  David.' " 

"And  do  you  remember  nothing  more  about 
that  day?" 

"Oh,  yes;  you  made  us  some  little  chairs  out 
of  red  sticks,  and  you  drew  me  here  in  a  cart." 

"Can't  you  remember  when  you  first  laid  eyes 
on  me?" 

"No — yes,  I  remember.  You  drove  a  funny 
old  horse,  and  I  saw  you  coming  when  I  was  wait- 
ing at  the  gate," 

"Yes,  you  were  at  the  gate,"  he  echoed,  with 
a  caressing  note  in  his  voice.  "You  were  dressed 
in  white,  as  you  are  to-day,  and  that  was  my  first 
glimpse  of  the  little  princess.  And  because  she 
was  the  only  one  I  had  ever  known,  I  thought  of 
her  for  years  as  a  princess  of  my  imagination 
who  had  no  real  existence." 

"But  afterwards,"  she  asked  wistfully,  "you 
did  n't  think  of  me  as  an  imaginary  person,  did 
you?" 

236 


DAVID   DUNNE 

"Yes ;  you  were  hardly  a  reality  until — " 

"Until  the  convention?"  she  asked  disappoint- 
edly. 

"No;  before  that.  It  was  in  South  America, 
when  I  began  to  write  my  book,  that  you  came 
to  life  and  being  in  my  thoughts.  The  tropical 
land,  the  brilliant  sunshine,  the  purple  nights,  the 
white  stars,  the  orchids,  the  balconies  looking 
down  upon  fountained  courts,  all  invoked  you. 
You  answered,  and  crept  into  my  book,  and  while 
we — you  and  I — were  writing  it,  it  came  to  me 
suddenly  and  overwhelmingly  that  the  little  prin- 
cess was  a  living,  breathing  person,  a  woman  who 
mayhap  would  read  my  book  some  day  and  feel 
that  it  belonged  to  her.  It  was  so  truly  hers  that 
I  did  not  think  it  necessary  to  write  the  dedica- 
tion page.  And  she  did  read  the  book  and  she 
did  know — did  n't  she?" 

He  looked  down  into  her  face,  which  had  grown 
paler  but  infinitely  more  lovely. 

"David,  I  didn't  dare  know.  I  wanted  to 
think  it  was  so." 

"Carey,"  his  voice  came  deep  and  strong,  his 
eyes  beseeching,  "we  were  prince  and  princess  in 

237 


DAVID   DUNNE 

that  enchanted  land  of  childish  dreams.     Will 
you  make  the  dream  a  reality?" 

"When,  David,"  she  asked  him,  "did  you  know 
that  you  loved,  not  the  little  princess,  but  me, 
Carey?" 

"You  make  the  right  distinction  in  asking  me 
when  I  knew  I  loved  you.  I  loved  you  always, 
but  I  did  n't  know  that  I  loved  you,  or  how  much 
I  loved  you,  until  that  night  we  sat  before  the  fire 
at  the  BradensV 

"And,  David,  tell  me  what  mother  said  that  day 
after  the  parade?" 

"She  told  me  I  had  her  consent  to  ask  you — 
this!" 

"And  why,  David,  did  you  wait  until  to-day?" 

"The  knowledge  that  you  were  coming  back 
here  to  Maplewood  brought  the  wish  to  make  a 
reality  of  another  dream — to  meet  you  at  the 
place  where  I  first  saw  you — to  bring  you  here, 
where  you  clung  to  me  for  the  protection  that  is 
henceforth  always  yours.  And  now,  Carey,  it  is 
my  turn  to  ask  you  a  question.  When  did  you 
first  love  me?" 

238 


"'Carey,  will  you  make  the  dream  a  reality?'" 


DAVID   DUNNE 

"That  first  day  I  met  you — here  in  the  woods. 
My  dream  and  my  prince  were  always  realities 
to  me." 


239 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  governor  was  indulging  in  the  un- 
wonted luxury  of  solitude  in  his  private 
sanctum  of  the  executive  offices.  The  long  line 
of  politicians,  office  seekers,  committees,  and  re- 
porters had  passed,  and  he  was  supposed  to  have 
departed  also,  but  after  his  exit  he  had  made  a 
detour  and  returned  to  his  private  office. 

Then  he  sat  down  to  face  the  knottiest  prob- 
lem that  had  as  yet  confronted  him  in  connection 
with  his  official  duties.  An  important  act  of  the 
legislature  awaited  his  signature  or  veto.  Va- 
rious pressing  matters  called  for  immediate  ac- 
tion, but  they  were  mere  trifles  compared  to 
the  issue  pending  upon  an  article  he  had  read  in 
a  bi-weekly  paper  from  one  of  the  country  dis- 
tricts. The  article  stated  that  a  petition  was 
being  circulated  to  present  to  the  governor, 
praying  the  pardon  and  release  of  Jud  Brum- 
ble.  Then  had  begun  the  great  conflict  in  the 
mind  of  David  Dunne,  the  "governor  who  could 

240 


DAVID   DUNNE 

do  no  wrong."  It  was  not  a  conflict  between 
right  and  wrong  that  was  being  waged,  for  Jud 
had  been  one  to  the  prison  born. 

David  reviewed  the  series  of  offenses  Jud  had 
perpetrated,  punishment  for  which  had  ever 
been  evaded  or  shifted  to  accomplices.  He  re- 
called the  solemn  promise  the  offender  had 
made  him  long  ago  when,  through  David's  ef- 
forts, he  had  been  acquitted — a  promise  swiftly 
broken  and  followed  by  more  daring  transgres- 
sions, which  had  culminated  in  one  enormous 
crime.  He  had  been  given  the  full  penalty — 
fifteen  years — a  sentence  in  which  a  long-suf- 
fering community  had  rejoiced. 

Jud  had  made  himself  useful  at  times  to  a 
certain  gang  of  ward  heelers  and  petty  poli- 
ticians, who  were  the  instigators  of  this  petition, 
which  they  knew  better  than  to  present  them- 
selves. Had  they  done  so,  David's  course  would 
have  been  plain  and  easy;  but  the  petition  was 
to  be  conveyed  directly  and  personally  to  the 
governor,  so  the  article  read,  by  the  prisoner's 
father,  Barnabas  Brumble. 

By  this  method  of  procedure  the  petitioners 


—  (16) 


241 


DAVID   DUNNE 

showed  their  cunning  as  well  as  their  knowledge 
of  David  Dunne.  They  knew  that  his  sense  of 
gratitude  was  as  strong  as  his  sense  of  accurate 
justice,  and  that  to  Barnabas  he  attributed  his 
first  start  in  life;  that  he  had,  in  fact,  literally 
blazed  the  political  trail  that  had  led  him  from 
a  country  lawyer  to  the  governorship  of  his 
state. 

There  were  other  ties,  other  reasons,  of  which 
these  signers  knew  not,  that  moved  David  to 
heed  a  petition  for  release  should  it  be  pre- 
sented. 

Again  he  seemed  to  see  his  mother's  implor- 
ing eyes  and  to  hear  her  impressive  voice.  Again 
he  felt  around  his  neck  the  comforting,  chubby 
arms  of  the  criminal's  little  sister.  Her  youthful 
guilelessness  and  her  inherent  goodness  had 
never  recognized  evil  in  her  wayward  brother, 
and  she  would  look  confidently  to  "Davey"  for 
service,  as  she  had  done  in  the  old  days  of  coun- 
try schools  and  meadow  lanes. 

On  the  other  hand,  he,  David  Dunne,  had 
taken  a  solemn  oath  to  do  his  duty,  and  his  duty 
to  the  people,  in  the  name  of  justice,  was  clear. 

242 


DAVID   DUNNE 

He  owed  it  to  them  to  show  no  leniency  to  Jud 
Crumble. 

So  he  hovered  between  base  ingratitude  to 
the  man  who  had  made  him,  and  who  had  never 
before  asked  a  favor,  and  non-fulfillment  of 
duty  to  his  people.  It  was  a  wage  of  head  and 
heart.  There  had  never  been  moral  compro- 
mises in  his  code.  There  had  ever  been  a  right 
and  a  wrong — plain  roads,  with  no  middle  course 
or  diverging  paths,  but  now  in  his  extremity  he 
sought  some  means  of  evading  the  direct  issue. 
He  looked  for  the  convenient  loophole  of  tech- 
nicality— an  irregularity  in  the  trial — but  his 
legal  knowledge  forbade  this  consideration 
after  again  going  over  the  testimony  and  evi- 
dence of  the  trial.  The  attorney  for  the  defense 
had  been  compelled  to  admit  that  his  client  had 
had  a  square  deal.  If  only  the  petition  might  be 
brought  in  the  usual  way,  and  presented  to  the 
pardon  board,  it  would  not  be  allowed  to  reach 
the  governor,  as  there  was  nothing  in  the  case 
to  warrant  consideration,  but  that  was  evidently 
not  to  be  the  procedure.  Barnabas  would  come 
to  him  and   ask   for  Jud's   release,  assuming 

243 


DAVID   DUNNE 

naturally  that  his  request  would  be  willingly 
granted. 

If  he  pardoned  Jud,  all  the  popularity  of  the 
young  governor  would  not  screen  him  from  the 
public  censure.  One  common  sentiment  of  out- 
rage had  been  awakened  by  the  crime,  and  the 
criminal  had  been  universally  repudiated,  but  it 
was  not  from  public  censure  or  public  criticism 
that  this  young  man  with  the  strong  under  jaw 
shrank,  but  from  the  knowledge  that  he  would  be 
betraying  a  trust.  Gratitude  and  duty  pointed 
in  different  directions  this  time. 

With  throbbing  brain  and  racked  nerves  he 
made  his  evening  call  upon  Carey,  who  had  come 
to  be  a  clearing  house  for  his  troubles  and  who 
was  visiting  the  Bradens.  She  looked  at  him  to- 
night with  her  eyes  full  of  the  adoration  a  young 
girl  gives  to  a  man  who  has  forged  his  way  to 
fame. 

He  responded  to  her  greeting  abstractedly, 
and  then  said  abruptly: 

"Carey,  I  am  troubled  to-night!" 

"I  knew  it  before  you  came,  David.  I  read 
the  evening  papers." 

244 


DAVID   DUNNE 

"What!"  he  exclaimed  in  despair.  "It 's  true, 
then!    I  have  not  seen  the  papers  to-night." 

She  brought  him  the  two  evening  papers  of 
opposite  politics.  In  glowing  headlines  the 
Democratic  paper  told  in  exaggerated  form  the 
story  of  his  early  life,  his  humble  home,  his  days 
of  struggle,  his  start  in  politics,  and  his  success, 
due  to  the  father  of  the  hardened  criminal. 
Would  the  governor  do  his  duty  and  see  that 
law  and  order  were  maintained,  or  would  he 
sacrifice  the  people  to  his  personal  obligations? 
David  smiled  grimly  as  he  reflected  that  either 
course  would  be  equally  censured  by  this  same 
paper. 

He  took  up  the  other  journal,  the  organ  of 
his  party,  which  stated  the  facts  very  much  as 
the  other  paper  had  done,  and  added  that  Bar- 
nabas Brumble  was  en  route  to  the  capital  city 
for  the  purpose  of  asking  a  pardon  for  his  son. 
The  editor,  in  another  column,  briefly  and  firmly 
expressed  his  faith  in  the  belief  that  David 
Dunne  would  be  stanch  in  his  views  of  what 
was  right  and  for  the  public  welfare. 

There  was  one  consolation;  neither  paper  had 

245 


DAVID   DUNNE 

profaned  by  public  mention  the  love  of  his  boy- 
hood days. 

"What  shall  I  do!  What  should  I  do!"  he 
asked  himself  in  desperation. 

"I  know  what  you  will  do,"  said  Carey, 
quickly  reading  the  unspoken  words. 

"What?" 

"You  will  do,  as  you  always  do — what  you 
believe  to  be  right.  David,  tell  me  the  story  of 
those  days." 

So  from  the  background  of  his  recollections 
he  brought  forward  vividly  a  picture  of  his  early 
life,  a  story  she  had  heard  only  from  others.  He 
told  her,  too,  of  his  boyish  fancy  for  Janey. 

There  was  silence  when  he  had  finished.  Carey 
looked  into  the  flickering  light  of  the  open  fire 
with  steady,  musing  eyes.  It  did  not  hurt  her 
in  the  least  that  he  had  had  a  love  of  long  ago 
It  made  him  but  the  more  interesting,  and  ap- 
pealed to  her  as  a  pretty  and  fitting  romance  in 
his  life. 

"It  seems  so  hard,  either  way,  David,"  she 
said  looking  up  at  him  in  a  sympathetic  way. 
"To  follow  the  dictates  of  duty  is  so  cold  and 

246 


DAVID   DUNNE 

cruel  a  way,  yet  if  you  follow  the  dictates  of 
your  heart  your  conscience  will  accuse  you.  But 
you  will,  when  you  have  to  act,  David,  do  what 
you  believe  to  be  right,  and  abide  by  the  conse- 
quences. Either  way,  dear,  is  going  to  bring 
you  unhappiness." 

"Which  do  you  believe  the  right  way,  Carey?" 
he  asked,  looking  searchingly  into  her  mystic 
eyes. 

"David,"  she  replied  helplessly,  "I  don't 
know!  The  more  I  think  about  it,  the  more  com- 
plicated the  decision  seems." 

They  discussed  the  matter  at  length,  and  he 
went  home  comforted  by  the  thought  that  there 
was  one  who  understood  him,  and  who  would 
abide  in  faith  by  whatever  decision  he  made. 

The  next  day,  at  the  breakfast  table,  on  the 
street,  in  his  office,  in  the  curious,  questioning 
faces  of  all  he  encountered,  he  read  the  inquiry 
he  was  constantly  asking  himself  and  to  which 
he  had  no  answer  ready.  When  he  finally 
reached  his  office  he  summoned  his  private 
secretary. 

"Major,  don't  let  in  any  more  people  than  is 
247 


DAVID   DUNNE 

absolutely  necessary  to-day.  I  will  see  no  re- 
porters. You  can  tell  them  that  no  petition  or 
request  for  the  pardon  of  Jud  Brumble  has  been 
received,  if  they  ask,  and  oh,  Major!" 

The  secretary  turned  expectantly. 

"If  Barnabas  Brumble  comes,  of  course  he  is 
to  be  admitted  at  once." 

Later  in  the  morning  the  messenger  to  the 
governor  stood  at  the  window  of  the  business 
office,  idly  looking  out. 

"Dollars  to  doughnuts,"  he  exclaimed  sud- 
denly and  confidently,  "that  this  is  Barnabas 
Brumble  coming  up  the  front  walk!" 

The  secretary  hastened  to  the  window.  A 
grizzled  old  man  in  butternut-colored,  tightly 
buttoned  overcoat,  and  carrying  a  telescope  bag, 
was  ascending  the  steps. 

"I  don't  know  why  you  think  so,"  said  the 
secretary  resentfully  to  the  boy.  "Barnabas 
Brumble  is  n't  the  only  farmer  in  the  world. 
Sometimes,"  he  added,  pursuing  a  train  of 
thought  beyond  the  boy's  knowledge,  "it  seems 
as  if  no  one  but  farmers  came  into  this  capitol 
nowadays." 

248 


DAVID   DUNNE 

A  few  moments  later  one  of  the  guards  ush- 
ered into  the  executive  office  the  old  man  carrying 
the  telescope.  The  secretary  caught  the  infec- 
tion of  the  boy's  belief. 

"What  can  I  do  for  you?"  he  asked  cour- 
teously. 

"I  want  to  see  the  guvner,"  replied  the  old 
man  in  a  curt  tone. 

"Your  name?"  asked  the  secretary. 

"Barnabas  Brumble,"  was  the  terse  response. 

He  had  not  read  the  newspapers  for  a  week 
past,  and  so  he  could  hardly  know  the  impor- 
tance attached  to  his  name  in  the  ears  of  those 
assembled.  The  click  of  the  typewriters  ceased, 
the  executive  clerk  looked  quickly  up  from  his 
papers,  the  messenger  assumed  a  triumphant 
pose,  and  the  janitor  peered  curiously  in  from 
an  outer  room. 

"Come  this  way,  Mr.  Brumble,"  said  the  sec- 
retary deferentially,  as  he  passed  to  the  end  of 
the  room  and  knocked  at  a  closed  door. 

David  Dunne  knew,  when  he  heard  the  knock, 
to  whom  he  would  open  the  door,  and  he  was 
glad  the  strain  of  suspense  was  ended.     But 

249 


DAVID   DUNNE 

when  he  looked  into  the  familiar  face  a  host  of 
old  memories  crowded  in  upon  his  recollection, 
and  obliterated  the  significance  of  the  call. 

"Uncle  Barnabas!"  he  said,  extending  a  cor- 
dial hand  to  the  visitor,  while  his  stern,  strong 
face  softened  under  his  slow,  sweet  smile.  Then 
he  turned  to  his  secretary. 

"Admit  no  one  else,  Major." 

David  took  the  telescope  from  his  guest  and 
set  it  on  the  table,  wondering  if  it  contained  the 
"documents  in  evidence." 

"Take  off  your  coat,  Uncle  Barnabas.  They 
keep  it  pretty  warm  in  here!" 

"I  callate  they  do — in  more  ways  than  one," 
chuckled  Barnabas,  removing  his  coat.  "I  hed 
to  start  purty  early  this  mornin',  when  it  was 
cool-like.  Wal,  Dave,  times  has  changed!  To 
think  of  little  Dave  Dunne  bein'  guvner!  I 
never  seemed  to  take  it  in  till  I  come  up  them 
front  steps." 

The  governor  laughed. 

"Sometimes  I  don't  seem  to  take  it  in  my- 
self, but  you  ought  to,  Uncle  Barnabas.  You 
put  me  here!" 

250 


DAVID   DUNNE 

As  he  spoke  he  unlocked  a  little  cabinet  and 
produced  a  bottle  and  a  couple  of  glasses. 

"Wal,  I  do  declar,  ef  you  don't  hev  things  as 
handy  as  a  pocket  in  a  shirt!  Good  stuff,  Dave! 
More  warmin'  than  my  old  coat,  I  reckon,  but 
say,  Dave,  what  do  you  s'pose  I  hev  got  in  that 
air  telescope?" 

David  winced.  In  olden  times  the  old  man 
ever  came  straight  to  the  point,  as  he  was  do- 
ing now. 

"Why,  what  is  it,  Uncle  Barnabas?" 

"Open  it!"  directed  the  old  man  laconically. 

With  the  feeling  that  he  was  opening  his  cof- 
fin, David  unstrapped  the  telescope  and  lifted 
the  cover.  A  little  exclamation  of  pleasure 
escaped  him.  The  telescope  held  big  red  ap- 
ples, and  it  held  nothing  more.  David  quickly 
bit  into  one. 

"I  know  from  just  which  particular  tree  these 
come,"  he  said,  "from  that  humped,  old  one  in 
the  corner  of  the  orchard  nearest  the  house." 

"Yes,"  allowed  Barnabas,  "that 's  jest  the  one 
— the  one  under  which  you  and  her  allers  set  and 
purt ended  you  were  studyin'  your  lessons." 

251 


DAVID   DUNNE 

David's  eyes  grew  luminous  in  reminiscence. 

"I  have  n't  forgotten  the  tree — or  her — or  the 
old  days,  Uncle  Barnabas." 

"I  knowed  you  had  n't,  Dave!" 

Again  David's  heart  sank  at  the  confidence  in 
the  tone  which  betokened  the  faith  reposed,  but 
he  would  give  the  old  man  a  good  time  anyway 
before  he  took  his  destiny  by  the  throat. 

"Wouldn't  you  like  to  go  through  the  capi- 
tal ?"  he  asked. 

"I  be  goin'.  The  feller  that  brung  me  up  here 
sed  he  'd  show  me  through." 

"I  '11  show  you  through,"  said  David  deci- 
sively, and  together  they  went  through  the  places 
of  interest  in  the  building,  the  governor  as  proud 
as  a  newly  domiciled  man  showing  off  his  pos- 
sessions. At  last  they  came  to  the  room  where 
in  glass  cases  reposed  the  old,  unfurled  battle 
flags.  The  old  man  stopped  before  one  case 
and  looked  long  and  reverently  within. 

"Which  was  your  regiment,  Uncle  Bar- 
nabas?" 

"Forty-seventh  Infantry.  I  kerried  that  air 
flag  at  the  Battle  of  the  Wilderness." 

252 


DAVID   DUNNE 

David  called  to  a  guard  and  obtained  a  key 
to  the  case.  Opening  it,  he  bade  the  old  man 
take  out  the  flag. 

With  trembling  hands  Barnabas  took  out  the 
flag  he  had  followed  when  his  country  went  to 
war.  He  gazed  at  it  in  silence,  and  then  restored 
it  carefully  to  its  place.  As  they  walked  away, 
he  brushed  his  coat  sleeve  hastily  acrosc  his 
dimmed  eyes. 

David  consulted  his  watch. 

"It 's  luncheon  time,  Uncle  Barnabas.  We  '11 
go  over  to  my  hotel.  The  executive  mansion  is 
undergoing  repairs." 

"I  want  more 'n  a  lunch.,  Dave!  I  ain't  et 
nuthin'  sence  four  o'clock  this  mornin'." 

"I  '11  see  that  you  get  enough  to  eat,"  laughed 
David. 

In  the  lobby  of  the  hotel  a  reporter  came 
quickly  up  to  them. 

"How  are  you,  governor?"  he  asked,  with  his 
eyes  fastened  falcon-like  on  Barnabas. 

David  returned  the  salutation  and  presented 
his  companion. 

"Mr.  Brumble  from  Lafferton?"  asked  the 

253 


DAVID   DUNNE 

reporter,  with  an  insinuating  emphasis  on  the 
name  of  the  town. 

"Yes,"  replied  the  old  man  in  surprise.  "I 
don't    seem    to    reckleck    seein'    you    before." 

"I  never  met  you,  but  I  have  heard  of  you. 
May  I  ask  what  your  business  in  the  city  is,  Mr. 
Brumble?" 

The  old  man  gave  him  a  keen  glance  from  be- 
neath his  shaggy  brows. 

"Wal,  I  don't  know  as  thar  's  any  law  agin 
your  askin'!    I  came  to  see  the  guvner." 

David,  with  a  laugh  of  pure  delight  at  the 
discomfiture  of  the  reporter,  led  the  way  to  the 
dining  room. 

"You  're  as  foxy  as  ever,  Uncle  Barnabas. 
You  routed  that  newspaper  man  in  good 
shape." 

"So  that 's  what  he  was!  I  did  n't  know  but 
he  was  one  of  them  three-card-monty  sharks. 
Wal,  I  s'pose  it 's  his  trade  to  ask  questions." 

Barnabas'  loquacity  always  ceased  entirely  at 
meal  times,  so  his  silence  throughout  the  lunch- 
eon was  not  surprising  to  David. 

"Wal,  Dave,"  he  said  as  he  finished,  "ef  this 

254 


DAVID   DUNNE 

is  your  lunch  I  'd  hate  to  hev  to  eat  what  you  'd 
call  dinner.  I  never  et  so  much  before  at  one 
settin'!" 

"We  '11  go  over  to  the  club  now  and  have  a 
smoke,"  suggested  David.  "Then  you  can  go 
back  to  my  office  with  me  and  see  what  I  have  to 
undergo  every  afternoon." 

At  the  club  they  met  several  of  David's  friends 
— not  politicians — who  met  Barnabas  with  cour- 
tesy and  composure.  When  they  returned  to 
David's  private  office  Barnabas  was  ensconced 
comfortably  in  an  armchair  while  David  listened 
with  patience  to  the  long  line  of  importuners, 
each  receiving  due  consideration.  The  last  in- 
terview was  not  especially  interesting  and  Bar- 
nabas' attention  was  diverted.  His  eyes  fell  on 
a  newspaper,  which  he  picked  up  carelessly.  It 
was  the  issue  of  the  night  before,  and  his  own 
name  was  conspicuous  in  big  type.  He  read 
the  article  through  and  returned  the  paper  to  its 
place  without  being  observed  by  David,  whose 
back  was  turned  to  him. 

"Wal,  Dave,"  he  said,  when  the  last  of  the 
line  had  left  the  room,  "I  used  ter  think  I  'd 

255 


DAVID   DUNNE 

ruther  do  eny thing  than  be  a  skule  teacher,  but 
I  swan  ef  you  don't  hev  it  wuss  yet!" 

David  made  no  response.  The  excitement  of 
his  boyish  pleasure  in  showing  Uncle  Barnabas 
about  had  died  away  as  he  listened  to  the  troubles 
and  demands  of  his  callers,  and  now  the  recol- 
lection of  the  old  man's  errand  confronted  him 
in  full  force. 

Barnabas  looked  at  him  keenly. 

"Dave,"  he  said  slowly,  "  't  ain't  no  snap  you 
hev  got!  I  never  knowed  till  to-day  jest  what  it 
meant  to  you.  I  'm  proud  of  you,  Dave!  I 
wish — I  wish  you  hed  been  my  son!" 

The  governor  arose  impetuously  and  crossed 
the  room. 

"I  would  have  been,  Uncle  Barnabas,  if  she 
had  not  cared  for  Joe!" 

"I  know  it,  Dave,  but  you  hev  a  sweet  little 
gal  who  will  make  you  happy." 

The  governor's  face  lighted  in  a  look  of  ex- 
quisite happiness. 

"I  have,  Uncle  Barnabas.  We  will  go  to  see 
her  this  evening." 

"I  'd  like  to  see  her,  sartain.    Hain't  seen  her 

256 


DAVID   DUNNE 

sence  the  night  you  was  elected.    And,  Dave," 
with  a  sheepish  grin,  "I  'm  a-goin'  to  git  spliced 

myself." 

"What?    No!    May  I  guess,  Uncle  Barnabas 

—Miss  Rhody?" 

"Dave,  you  air  a  knowin'  one.  Yes,  it 's  her! 
Whenever  we  set  down  to  our  full  table  I  got  to 
thinkin'  of  that  poor  little  woman  a-settin'  down 
alone,  and  I  've  never  yet  knowed  a  woman  livin' 
alone  to  feed  right.  They  allers  eat  bean  soup 
or  prunes,  and  call  it  a  meal." 

"I  am  more  glad  than  I  can  tell  you,  Uncle 
Barnabas,  and  I  shall  insist  on  giving  the  bride 
away.  But  what  will  Penny  think  about  some 
one  stepping  in?" 

"Wal,  Dave,  I  '11  allow  I  wuz  skeered  to  tell 
Penny,  and  it  tuk  a  hull  lot  of  bracin'  to  do  it, 
and  what  do  you  suppose  she  sed?  She  sez,  'I  Ve 
bin  wantin'  tew  quit  these  six  years,  and  now, 
thank  the  Lord,  I  've  got  the  chance.' ' 

"Why,  what  in  the  world  did  she  want  to 

leave  for?" 

"I  guess  you'll  be  surprised  when  I  tell  you. 

To  marry  Larimy  Sasser!" 

257 

(17) 


DAVID   DUNNE 

"Uncle  Larimy!  She'll  scour  him  out  of 
house  and  home,"  laughed  David. 

"We  '11  hev  both  weddin's  to  the  same  time. 
Joe  and  Janey  are  a-comin',  and  we  '11  hev  a 
grand  time.  I  hain't  much  on  the  write,  Dave, 
and  I  've  allers  meant  to  see  you  here  in  this 
great  place.  Some  of  the  boys  sez  to  me :  'Mebby 
Dave  's  got  stuck  on  himself  and  his  job  by  this 
time,  and  you  '11  hev  to  send  in  yer  keerd  by  a 
nigger  fust  afore  you  kin  see  him,'  but  I  sez, 
'No!  Not  David  Dunne!  He  ain't  that  kind 
and  never  will  be.'  So  when  I  go  back  I  kin  tell 
them  how  you  showed  me  all  over  the  place,  and 
tuk  me  to  eat  at  a  hotel  and  to  that  air  stylish 
place  where  I  wuz  treated  like  a  king  by  yer 
friends.  I  've  never  found  you  wantin',  Dave, 
and  I  never  expect  to!" 

"Uncle  Barnabas,"  began  David,  "I — " 

His  voice  suddenly  failed  him. 

"See  here,  Dave!  I  didn't  know  nuthin' 
about  that,"  pointing  to  the  newspaper,  "until 
a  few  minutes  ago.  I  sed  tew  hum  that  I  wuz 
a-comin'  to  see  how  Dave  run  things,  and  ef 
them  disreptible  associates  of  Jud's  air  a-gittin' 

258 


DAVID   DUNNE 

up  some  fool  paper,  I  don't  know  it!  Ef  they 
do  send  it  in,  don't  you  dare  sign  it!  Why,  I 
would  n't  hev  that  boy  outen  prison  f  er  nuthin'. 
He  's  different  from  what  he  used  to  be,  Dave. 
He  got  so  low  he  would  hev  to  reach  up  ter  touch 
bottom.  He  's  ez  low  ez  they  git,  and  he  's  dan- 
gerous. I  did  n't  know  an  easy  minute  f  er  the 
last  two  years  afore  he  wuz  sent  up,  so  keep  him 
behind  them  bars  f er  fear  he  '11  dew  somethin' 
wuss  when  he  gits  out.  Don't  you  dare  sign  no 
petition,  Dave!" 

Tears  of  relief  sprang  into  the  strong  eyes  of 
the  governor. 

"Why,  Dave,"  said  the  old  man  in  shocked 
tones,  "you  did  n't  go  f  er  to  think  f  er  a  minute 
I  'd  ask  you  to  let  him  out  cause  he  wuz  my  son  ? 
Even  ef  I  hed  a  wanted  him  out,  and  Lord  knows 
I  don't,  I  'd  not  ask  you  to  do  somethin'  wrong, 
no  more  'n  I  'd  bring  dishoner  to  that  old  flag 
I  held  this  mornin'!" 

David  grasped  his  hand. 

"Uncle  Barnabas!" 

His  voice  broke  with  emotion.  Then  he  mur- 
mured :  "We  '11  go  to  see  her,  now." 

259 


DAVID   DUNNE 

As  they  passed  out  into  the  corridor  a  reporter 
hastened  up  to  them. 

"Governor,"  he  asked,  with  impudent  direct- 
ness, "are  you  going  to  pardon  Jud  Bramble?" 

Before  David  could  reply,  Barnabas  stepped 
forward : 

"Young  feller,  thar  hain't  no  pardon  ben  asked 
fer  Jud  Bramble,  and  what 's  more,  thar  hain't 
a-goin'  to  be  none  asked — not  by  me.  I  come 
down  here  to  pay  my  respecks  to  the  guvner,  and 
to  bring  him  a  few  apples,  and  you  kin  say  so 
ef  you  wanter!" 

When  Carey  came  into  the  library  where  her 
two  callers  awaited  her,  one  glance  into  the 
divine  light  of  David's  deepening,  glowing  eyes 
told  her  what  she  wanted  to  know. 

With  a  soft  little  cry  she  went  to  Barna- 
bas, who  was  holding  out  his  hand  in  welcome. 
Impulsively  her  lips  were  pressed  against  his 
withered  cheek,  and  he  took  her  in  his  arms 
as  he  might  have  taken  Janey. 

"Why,  Carey!"  he  said  delightedly,  "Dave's 
little  gal!" 


260 


AN  ANNOUNCEMENT 

of  New  Books 


Love  in  a  Mask. 


Honore  de  Balzac 


A  discovery  in  the  world  of  literature,  a  story  of 
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Betty  Moore's  Journal.     Mrs.  Mabel  D.  Carry 

A  gallant  little  charge  for  the  rights  of  motherhood 
among  the  wealthy  indifferent,  and  from  a  most 
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The  Joy  of  Gardens.  Lena  May  McCauley 

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by  its  charm  of  description,  its  riot  of  color,  and 
its  carnival  of  blossom." — The  Boston  Herald. 
Price $1.75  net. 

The  Lovers.  Eden  Phillpotts 

An  "intense"  tale  of  love  and  war,  the  ingenuity 
and  daring  of  American  prisoners  on  British  soil 
brought  into  stirring  play  with  the  integrity  of 
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Lady  Eleanor:  Lawbreaker.  Robert  Barr 

"Lady  Eleanor  is  a  brilliant  little  story  of 
Sheridan's  time,  clever  and  tingling  with  interest. 
Though  a  love  story  pure  and  simple,  the  tale 
is  charged  throughout  with  the  spirit  of  the 
great  playwright  and  is  a  mirror  of  his  circle  and 
hour.  — The  Argus,  Albany,  N.  Y. 
Price $1.00  net 

RAND  McNALLY  &  COMPANY 

CHICAGO  NEW  YORK 


DATE  DUE 

I 

GAYLOPD 

PRINTED  IN  U    S    A 

UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A    001  427  635    6 


